


Come Home (formerly 'Ten Minutes')

by OpheliaLMX



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Found Family, Functional D&D mechanics, Hopeful Ending, More feelings than I usually write, Other, Standard Caleb warnings, The violence is real, Themes about death but not beyond canon, Themes around tragedy, Two different levels of it, Yes it has 'major character death' but please remember there are two clerics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-06-25 01:44:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19735837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OpheliaLMX/pseuds/OpheliaLMX
Summary: The Mighty Nein are travelling across the barren wastes when they are beset by a small squadron of mages.Caleb meets an old friend.





	1. Six Seconds

**Author's Note:**

> _FYI if you read this a while ago: I've decided to have this take place post-episode 77, so there are some minor changes to keep it in line with canon. Nothing major though. =]  
>  Also the title is changed._

Caleb can’t think much beyond fight, protect, kill the ones that hurt. His huge, quadrupedal body is armoured with scales, and he roars. He lashes out at one of the bad things with his long, muscular tail.

It looks pretty small, but Caleb knows it’s not a small thing, it’s a regular sized person. It has light brown hair and dark brown skin and no armour to stick in his teeth. It looks tasty.

To be fair, the Mighty Nein look tasty too (Caleb is so hungry, and so irritated by the movement of people around him, and the uncomfortable sensation of dry, sandy air against his spiny scales). The Mighty Nein also look like home though, so he knows not to attack them. He can see that one of them is oozing too much blood (bad, not good). It’s the green one, the bigger green one (the little green one he can’t see. She’s hiding – maybe behind Caleb’s gargantuan body, which is good, he likes that). He probably knows their names, but he doesn’t have time to think of them right now as he gnashes again at the bad thing that is trying to kill them.

 _No_ , he thinks as the bad thing shoots something bright and yellow and scary at the wounded one who is Caleb’s home. _You can’t have that one, that is one of mine_. He wants to taste this bad thing’s flesh. He lunges again.

Caleb feels the repellent force of magical protection against his long, razor sharp teeth, and this time he can’t force his way through it. He’s angry, and he gets hungrier. The thing that hurts moves its hands again and the green one is thrown off to the side, barely keeping his footing in the sand. The blue and brown one runs up with incredible speed, and hits the bad thing with little fists. Caleb knows her name too, but there’s no time to think of it. He limps on broken claws and swings his tail at the bad thing again, and tries not to hit the blue and brown one that is his.

There are a number of bad things. Caleb could maybe count them but he doesn’t have time right now. Over to the side, one of the other bad things’ hands sparkle, and Caleb sees rippling, bright light. He tries to duck out of the way but his form is too massive and he can’t move fast enough. Pain ripples through his body, burning at his scales and his muscles. He roars again, long and loud, and the sound resonates through the battlefield. He has to kill it. Has to kill all the bad things.

Now distracted from his previous target, Caleb now swings his tail at the thing that just hurt him with lightning. This bad thing is fair and has almost white hair; it is spattered with blood as Caleb smacks it hard with his tail, throwing it backwards to the dusty ground.

And it’s at that point that he notices something.

It’s very strange. One of the other bad things changes somehow. The colours change. The shape changes. It’s taller, a bit broader. Its clothes are darker, bulky and armoured, and its skin is lighter. This one feels like home, for sure.  
_Did they change?_ Caleb thinks. _You are changed._ _Home might change too._

The green one is still there; he is still definitely home. He has barely steadied himself and is stepping backwards even as he throws angry, icy, blue-green twisting magic at the one that changed. But that's the one which also feels like home, and… why are they fighting again?

Caleb is confused.

He instinctively wants to kill the bad things and protect the good things, the things that are home. He really wants to do that, but it’s hard. His teeth won’t stop them hurting each other – will they?

Before morphing into any beast, Caleb goes through his goals in his head, tries to simplify them so he will remember even when he has changed form. He had known this mind would be particularly simple and this body particularly strong, so to avoid hurting the rest of the group, he had reduced this focus down to remembering one simple mantra.

_If you get confused, you stop immediately, or you will die._

Caleb remembers the mantra. He doesn’t have time to try to think of the words right now, but he remembers the meaning.

He is confused, so he must stop immediately, or he will die.

It doesn’t matter that when he cast the polymorph spell, he was very badly wounded. It doesn’t matter that he is in the middle of the battlefield. He knows that on some level, maybe, but he doesn’t have time to think of it. He doesn’t even remember why he must follow this mantra, or what it means. But it feels important.

_If you get confused, you stop immediately, or you will die._

He is confused. He must stop immediately, or he will die.

Caleb roars again, but doesn’t swing his tail or try to bite. He lowers his massive jaw to the ground. Closes his enormous, reptilian eyes. Stops thinking, stops trying, stops everything, holds his breath.

Stops.

The Polymorph spell drops.

Caleb is no longer a monstrously sized, scaled, dire crocodile. Instead, he is a badly wounded, not very strong man, pulling himself unsteadily to his feet from the dusty desert planes of Xorhas, surrounded by combatants both friendly and not.

He squeezes his eyes shut and opens them again. He has only seconds to comprehend his surroundings, to feel his own warm blood running from his side and down over his hip and thigh. Caleb can see Beau engaged with the half-elven mage he had been attacking in his gargantuan crocodile form. He can see Fjord, stumbling backwards. His longsword is raised, but he is so badly wounded as every second attack, it seems, is targeted at him. Fjord tries to duck, but a dark bolt of magic strikes him in the chest, dangerously close to his throat, and his foot catches as his body is pushed backwards with the force of the blow. He drops to his knees, swaying.

Caleb can see Caduceus immediately running in Fjord’s direction, healing magic glowing in his hands as he ignores the squat human man in dull blue robes trying to hit him with a glistening spear of green-yellow acid. Jester steps back and holds tightly to the symbol of the Traveller at her waist as massive gongs ring through the battlefield. Caleb even catches the slightest glimpse of Nott darting to one side, now with no massive, scaled, polymorphed wizard to hide behind. She shoots two crossbow bolts at the green-robed human woman who has been attacking Jester.

In the distance, mountains. To the north, trees, at least two hundred feet away.

All of this is in Caleb’s peripheral vision though. He notices it all, but…

What Caleb truly sees is grey-brown, matte armour. He sees flowing, dusky robes which do not quite hide the glimmer of a large silver pendant that hangs by the solar plexus. He sees a very long, narrow, shining silver greatsword. All of this had been hidden by the figure’s previous disguise.

Caleb sees piercing, icy blue eyes that fix upon him for a fraction of a moment, before the figure turns and kicks Fjord hard in the chest with one heavy boot, and swings in with the greatsword. Fjord falls backwards into the sand with barely a grunt.

Automatically, Caleb pulls a sliver of licorice root from his breast pocket, heart racing impossibly quickly as his returned human consciousness tries desperately to get a grip on all of this.

He is just himself. He is bare. He is unprotected, unhidden, and hurt.

The spell component barely reaches his mouth before Caleb feels a shard of icy pain shoot into his torso, from the white-blond mage he had struck with his tail. The ice rips into his flesh, and he feels a shocking spike of wrongness piecing between his ribs. It is definitely bad. His head spins. He can’t feel his fingers.

“Jester! Get Caleb!” he hears Nott shriek.

Ordinarily, it would be reassuring to hear that Nott and Jester had his back. This time, though… well, it was always a fool’s gamble. Caleb can feel his body collapsing, the ground rushing closer. He had known it was only a matter of time.

Caleb’s vision blurs and he can’t breathe as his own, hot blood gushes into his lung. He tastes iron. The silver sword of the figure in grey-brown armour gleams with radiant magic in the perpetual twilight of Xorhas, its perfect silver surface now stained with blood as it arches through the air once more.

It’s not just him. Maybe they will all die today.  
Yasha didn’t miss out on much after all.

Caleb feels his chest contract as he tries to cough, and a flood of hot blood runs down his chin. He can only just feel the scratchy surface of the sand against his face. He barely feels pain anymore.

He faintly hears the clink and rattle of armour growing closer. A bloodied greatsword rests on the ground in front of his head.

 _It could be worse_ , Caleb thinks hysterically as the colours all run, and begin to fade. _At least_ _Eodwulf is doing okay_.


	2. Ten Minutes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say, writing a fic in which the events must take a predetermined amount of time is massively stressful. xD  
> xxxx  
> But here it is, a chapter that has been lingering in my head for many, many months now.

When Caleb is awakened, it is gentle. One of the first things he learned the from the Mighty Nein is that not every person’s magic feels the same. Jester’s is warm, glowing. Sometimes giddy, like a sugar rush. Caduceus’s magic is like growing, it’s emboldening, and it carries a soft scent like crushed and slightly fermenting flower petals, and for what little Caleb has felt of it, Fjord’s magic is crackling with potential, barely contained energy just waiting to be unleashed.

Eodwulf’s magic is cold, sweeping, merciful relief. Bren hasn’t felt it in a long time, but the soothing chill emanating from the gentle, healing hand pressed against his sternum is comfort incarnate.

It doesn’t keep his whole body from humming with fear.

He opens his eyes slowly. Caleb is sitting in a chair, still, head hanging forward. Without moving, he can see the familiar icy blue and white healing motes as they drift from Eodwulf’s hand into his own chest. Broken bones are pulled back together, and the huge slash to his side closes. He had already been breathing, but his breaths grow stronger. When the motes have all entered Caleb’s body, Eodwulf remains in position for just a moment longer, the light dimming from his hand. He seems to hesitate, and then softly pats Caleb’s chest twice, before taking several steps back.

Caleb feels like his mind is split in two, and almost every instinct he possesses is telling him to run somehow, to find himself a muddy ditch and blend in with the filth. Perhaps more so than ever before, Caleb knows he has no business being alive. These are borrowed minutes – borrowed _seconds_.

“I know you are awake, _mon amie_ ,” says a soft voice.

It is coming from the man standing in front of Caleb, and the voice is rich and familiar – but also foreign and smooth. The language and accent are reminiscent of voices he has heard primarily at sea. It’s almost enough to make Caleb think he may have been mistaken, in fact; this might not be Eodwulf after all...

Still, Caleb has never been one to permit himself hope when such a feeling is unwarranted.

He swallows the twisting ball of emotion in his throat and looks up.

The man before him is so familiar and yet so unfamiliar. His strange, matte grey-brown armour and dusky cloak are gone, replaced by what he had presumably been wearing underneath – a mussed, loose black shirt, roughly laced up at the front and with slightly too-long sleeves, and soft looking, blue pants. His shiny, heavy black boots are fancier, fine in fact, even by Rexxentrum standards. A silver amulet, roughly hewn and one of a kind, hangs from a long, thin black chain around his neck. The last of its holy-white healing glow is fading.

Eodwulf’s mouth twitches in a brief, seemingly involuntary smile of recognition.

Caleb’s own coat and scarf are gone, as are his books. His hands, forearms, and wrists, are bound securely to the arms of a solid, wooden chair, and his ankles are affixed to the chair’s legs. His feet are bare. The belt where he keeps extra spell components is gone, his fine, light armour is gone, even his magical ring is gone…

For a split second, Caleb feels a rush of pure, desperate, choking panic because _he doesn’t know where his amulet is_ , and when he automatically tries to reach for it, he just pulls at the finely woven rope that is binding him in place. He makes a high pitched grunt in the back of his throat, and nudges down towards it with his chin, feeling for it.

The amulet is still there. It is displayed openly rather than hiding in its usual spot beneath his tunic, pressed against his chest. But it is there. Hopefully that still matters. Caleb’s heart is thumping in his ears.

Eodwulf tenses in response to the movement, taking another half step back and holding both hands at the ready, magic rippling over his fingers. His jet-black hair is long now, and half has fallen out from its leather tie to hang loosely down to his collar. There are rings of darkness beneath Eodwulf’s familiar, icy-blue eyes, and fine wrinkles in the corners. He has strange, extremely nasty, long healed-over pink scars wrapped around his throat.

“That voice is… reflexive,” Eodwulf says under his breath, in Common, but now with a more familiar, if very mild, Zemnian lilt. His eyes scan over Caleb’s face and hands, watching for movement even though the captive is so tightly bound he can barely wriggle his fingers. “No casting please, be still.”

Caleb has nothing. He forces down his biting, frenzied fear, and shoves it to the side along with the persistent echo of affection and love he also cannot afford to feel right now.

“Your wounds feel stable enough, _ja_?” asks Eodwulf, wary.

He is not a teenager. He is thirty-three. They are both alive, somehow, though presumably this will not last much longer. Caleb doesn’t say anything.

The whole room is quite simple, furnished with a little bed, a couple of chairs, and a sturdy looking writing desk. It does not have any doors or windows, but a ladder does descend from an opening in the ceiling in the far corner. Caleb’s coat sits, folded, on the desk, with his books and the folded loops of their empty leather holster on top. His symbol of favour from the Bright Queen lays on the desk next to the pile. The silver greatsword leans against the chair, and the flowing, dusky grey cloak is bundled up on the bed. There is no sign of the grey-brown armour. The sword is gritty with sand and dust, and wet with fresh blood.

“I feel that you do not necessarily want to kill me, Caleb,” says Eodwulf quietly. “Is that true at least?”

Caleb recognises the tone shift in Eodwulf’s voice, even when he is speaking in Common. Hears the edge of uncertainty. The name, ‘Caleb’, does not belong in this person’s mouth.

Still, Caleb says nothing.

It takes some time for Eodwulf to speak again. His voice drops even further, and he takes a slow step closer. Caleb sees a tremor run through one of his hands. Vulnerability. Caleb’s insides feel like they might fall apart too, but he has to be stronger than that. He remains deadpan.

“You do... remember me, don’t you?” Eodwulf murmurs.

Caleb feels the muscle twitch on one side of his jaw, and his eyes suddenly itch. He looks down to gaze vaguely at the small bunk bed behind Eodwulf. What is this tactic?

“Caleb?” Eodwulf asks. His cloak is in a bundle upon the bunk; it may be magical. It is smoky grey, with a slight shimmer to it. Caleb focuses on that. Still met with silence, Eodwulf’s voice drops almost to a whisper. “… Bren?”

For all that Caleb has tried to build walls within his mind, his eyes still reflexively dart to his once-friend’s face.

“I think you should untie me,” he says flatly.

Something relaxes ever so slightly in his captor’s stance when he finally speaks. Still, Eodwulf keeps one hand to his side. He has a narrow, black belt around his waist, and from it a couple of vials and a small pouch hang at his hip – presumably spell components of some kind. With the other hand, he draws an arcane symbol in the air, and Caleb tenses up at the prospect of magic, especially now while he can’t respond, can’t even try to protect himself. He tries not to flinch.

The still-wet blood is drawn from Caleb’s clothes, from his face, and the sticky trail running down his neck is whisked away. He feels the gravelly dirt of the Wildlands swept from his skin and his now-clean hair.

This is familiar; he should have recognised the symbols.

“That’s not how this is going to work,” says Eodwulf. “I’m sorry.”

He meets Caleb’s wary eyes, and for a moment, he is still. Then, Eodwulf moves his hand away from whatever is at his side, and holds both hands open, as if to demonstrate that he is holding nothing, that he is unarmed. Presumably that he means no harm. It would be more persuasive if Caleb didn’t know Eodwulf’s magic. It would be more persuasive if the blood from the man’s greatsword wasn’t steadily dripping down to form a little puddle on the wooden floor.

“I am... trying to put aside my preconceptions,” Eodwulf says steadily. “You will need to find faith and do the same, because we do not have a lot of time… I don’t want to fight you.”

It is strange to Bren that this is the approach Eodwulf is going with. The choice to cede social power is hardly optimal, especially if this ‘time pressure’ is real – and it’s not like Eodwulf has no force of personality to call upon as needed. Caleb should have been put down like a dog in the twilight desert of Xorhas and forgotten. Control of the conversation is the only leverage he could possibly obtain at this point, so why give him an opening? Curious.

“What is it that you want from me?” Caleb says flatly.

“I want for us to... share information, Caleb,” says Eodwulf carefully. "That's all." His forehead and jaw are tense with some kind of pressure.

“Please, do not lie to me,” Caleb responds immediately. “And, ah. Do not use that name. What is there for you? In this?”

Eodwulf runs his tongue over his lower lip, and his hands are still open and empty.

“I am hoping that our goals may align,” he says.

Caleb scoffs, and Eodwulf jumps just slightly, overeager magic rippling over his fingers again.

“I have no goals.”

“Of course you have goals, you were trekking through Xorhas, with the blessing of Kryn Empress-”

“ _Ja_ , and now I am here,” Caleb pushes. “Whose orders are you acting upon?”

“That’s complicated-” Eodwulf objects.

“I am sure!”

“It is!”

His tone is rising, and Caleb laughs out loud, making a show of trying and failing to twist his hands from the chair’s restraints.

“We can help each other – I can help you,” Eodwulf insists, his frustration transparent. “Give me a chance _bitte!_ ”

“ _Entschuldigung_ , perhaps I might do that were I not _bound to a chair_ ,” Caleb retorts forcefully, skin prickling with adrenaline as he summons what he can of his strongest persona. “ _Gottverdammt_ , Eodwulf, if you are trying to establish an illusion of trust this is amateur.”

Eodwulf glances over at a small clock that sits on the wooden desk, near where Caleb’s belongings have been stacked. He frowns at it, but still steps backward, to the bunk bed, and sinks down to sit on the edge, interlacing his fingers together. The muscles in his neck are tight, corded, and he swears under his breath.

Caleb watches and does not blink.

“ _Why are you nervous?_ ” he demands in Zemnian. Bren can command more authority in their native tongue, and indeed he can see Eodwulf’s shoulders tense further, his hands closing together more tightly . “ _This is overkill; look at you, you could break me like a twig._ ”

“Y _ou could incinerate me like one,_ ” Eodwulf responds immediately, conceding the change of language without resistance.

“ _Untie me, Eodwulf,_ ” Bren orders coldly. “ _Now._ ”

Eodwulf visibly swallows, and separates his hands, holding them down to his sides and, clearly trying and failing to conceal how much effort this takes.

“ _Caleb,_ _you don’t understand the depths of peril closing upon you - and now that we are speaking, upon us. This mission was a_ _clean-up, not-_ ”

“ _Then why have you not split my skull open?_ ” Caleb bites out, bitter and harsh and accusatory. He nods towards his thoroughly bound hands. _“Surely purging filth has become routine for you by now._ _T_ _his is not_ _simply_ _juvenile hesitation._ Scourgers _do not hesitate._ _”_

Caleb’s mouth still tastes a little like blood as he uses the term – not just the Common word for a Vollstrecker, but the term most commonly used among the enemy. ‘Scourger’. He reflexively glances over towards the desk, towards Eodwulf’s sword, and towards the Bright Queen’s symbol on the table.

Executioners do not hesitate to end traitors, if that is their assignment.

Eodwulf does not rise to the bait, does not defend himself or lash out. But he does not back down either. He may be many things, but he is clearly not seventeen anymore. He whispers something almost silently to himself, eyes still darkly fixed upon Caleb. The holy symbol around his neck gives off a soft, white glow.

Automatically, Caleb claws at the wooden arms of the chair as he feels the softest chill of Eodwulf’s soothing magic wash over him, pulsing through him, into his mind. Caleb snarls as he forces it away, shaking his head as if the magic were physically clinging to his skin, to his hair. It’s not totally unfamiliar, but he doesn’t know what Eodwulf is trying to do – and it is apparently divine magic too, so there are not even any runes to decode.

“’ _W_ _e can help each other_ _’_ _indeed_ _,_ ” Caleb spits out, bitterly mocking Eodwulf’s words. “ _You used to be a better liar._ ”

Eodwulf’s brow furrows more deeply, but he otherwise ignores this. In fact, he closes his eyes; this is the first time he has allowed his gaze to venture away from Caleb. Not that there is anything Caleb can actually do with this opening, of course. He is tied up. He is simply not powerful enough to get out of this, whether Eodwulf recognises that or not. He has nothing.

“ _Lawbearer_ ,” Eodwulf murmurs, quiet and melodic. “ _I am your instrument_.”

The years have not even slightly changed the sound of Eodwulf speaking in Celestial, and for a moment Bren misses him so much it physically aches. The dissonance is like a soldering iron to the base of the skull. How poetic that he should die at the hands of someone he cares for.

Eodwulf’s holy symbol glows again, and Caleb feels the rippling magic once more, cool and cleansing, and maybe it’s because his focus is split but this time he can’t keep it out. Caleb feels the holy energy seep through his bones with a comfortable, chilly shiver. He tastes it on his tongue and swears under his breath. He does know this magic after all.

“ _S_ _ee?_ _I have no interest in lying to you,_ ” says Eodwulf as he opens his eyes again, and their usual pale, icy blue shade looks darker as his pupils have blown out. “ _But I need answers to some questions. Neither of us has time for g_ _a_ _mes._ ”

With the slight shimmer of holy magic in the air, filling the room, he looks a little more centred, and honestly a lot more tired. Like Caleb, Eodwulf is still a young man. But he didn’t have creases to his brow when he was seventeen. He didn’t have the faint smattering of silver in his midnight black hair.

Caleb narrows his eyes. He can’t be completely sure, of course, because powerful magic can be malleable, but the zone of truth does seem to encompass the whole room. Seems to.

“ _What is_ _y_ _our time limit_ _?_ ” he tests.

“ _Ten minutes,_ _from_ _the first words you spoke_.” Specific.

“ _Are you going to kill me?_ ” Caleb asks just as quickly.

Eodwulf takes in a breath to respond, but then hesitates. He works his jaw in a circle like he is testing the words, and if this is him only pretending to be impacted by the zone of truth, Eodwulf has become a truly phenomenal actor over the past sixteen years.

“ _It is my hope that neither of us will die today_ ,” says Eodwulf carefully . “ _But…_ _it is up to you._ _I will learn, from you, what my duty may be_.”

Caleb laughs before he can help himself, and it is a dark sound. It hurts.

“ _You are saying_ _that_ _I must prove myself_ _..._ _w_ _orthy of saving_ ,” he says. “ _By the standards of the_ _Executioners_.”

“ _No, by my standards_ ,” Eodwulf responds immediately, and without humour.

Caleb raises his eyebrows. Eodwulf’s expression is one he has not seen on him before. It is pure resolution. Eodwulf grimly glances over to the clock again. Caleb first spoke approximately three minutes ago, though he does not know why that is the marker.

“ _Who is your superior?_ ” he demands.

“ _I – Master Ikithon?_ ” says Eodwulf. He doesn’t sound sure about it.

“ _Oh, Trent was hiding in the field with us, was he?_ ” Caleb spits, mockingly. “ _Who is your Commander? Who is_ _L_ _eading?_ ”

“ _I am!_ ” Eodwulf insists. He is sitting up, and looks almost defensive. “ _Or – nobody?_ ”

“ _You are the one playing games, Eodwulf,_ ” Caleb snarls, and spits on the floor between them. “ _You will tell me_ _from whom_ _you are taking your orders!_ ”

Eodwulf growls under his breath. Even with every tool at his disposal to overpower his captive, from magic, to weapons, to simply being the taller, stronger person, he manages to look cornered.

He visibly hesitates, but locks his jaw and begins to unlace his black shirt, pulling it open roughly. Caleb blinks.

Eodwulf’s skin has always been very fair, even in comparison to Bren’s, and his half-loosened, shoulder length jet black hair makes his paleness even more pronounced. His body holds more definition than it did when they were younger, and Caleb thinks the scars around his neck must have been left by some kind of terrible whip, because one of them flicks down, a visible lash mark reaching past his collarbone, and another curls up the back of his neck.

The hair on Eodwulf's chest is black too, not so thick as one might expect, but more prominent than that is a large, black tattoo, easily the size of one of Eodwulf's hands and positioned t the left of his sternum, over his heart. It is a thick line drawing of the Lawbearer’s scales, the design traditionally etched into holy symbols of Erathis. It is extremely prominent, almost jarring against Eodwulf’s pale skin, and the lining of the artwork is crisp. Perfect.

“Try to see past your preconceptions!” Eodwulf objects again, switching back to Common. Perhaps Eodwulf can command more authority in Common. Though forceful and loud, he is clearly being careful to control his breathing. “Please, Bren, trust that I am not a mindless soldier.”

When he has mostly unlaced his shirt, Eodwulf pulls it off entirely.

His muscular arms are covered in ink, and unlike the tattoo across his chest, these marks look like writing. Some of it is fine, but most of the tattoos resemble scribbled notes made permanent.

The two most prominent words are at the top of Eodwulf’s left arm, near his shoulder. They are extremely elegant, even elaborate in design, the letters finely shaped in delicate, permanent cursive upon his skin, and they seem to ripple, sparkling with blue-green.

‘Inge’ - Eodwulf’s mother’s name. And ‘Fellière’ - her wife. Eodwulf’s parents.

Caleb scans with his eyes, confused and frantic, but he can only make out some of the few words – they are mostly names. He doesn’t recognise any in particular. The words that are not names are eerie. Telling.

‘Unnamed elderly worshipper’ is written near the ‘e’ in Inge. ‘Unnamed beggar woman’ is written near Eodwulf’s wrist. Near his elbow there is writing that seems like it is probably in dwarven, and near his right shoulder, Caleb can barely see the word, ‘Kryn’, with just a tally next to it. The extent of the tally is hidden, wrapped around to the back of Eodwulf’s shoulder-blade.

Caleb’s mind is anxiously racing. He had been tense in the anticipation of seeing his friend’s familiar scars, but he barely even notices them through the names of the dead.

“I am a student of redemption, Bren, and I can think for myself,” says Eodwulf, leaning forward and trying to lock eyes with Caleb. “It’s actually – it’s a point of disagreement, between Master Ikithon and I. One of… one of many – but I _need_ to believe in redemption, Bren. I need it.”

Caleb’s vision loses focus just a little. He hears crackling, screaming, the almighty crack of scorched wood buckling under pressure.  
He thinks about cobwebs. But... no.

“The _Vollstreckers_ do vital work; there is no Empire without us, but nobody- Bren, look at me!” says Eodwulf, still heated but at least quieting a bit; maybe Caleb looks as stricken as he feels. “Nobody is perfect,” says Eodwulf. “I pray that the punishment for each mistake is just, and righteous, and hopefully… not unending, and I do not want to make more mistakes,” he says in a low voice. “I promise I don’t want to kill you, you understand?”

Eodwulf breathes heavily, and curls his fingers into the bedding he is seated on as if to keep himself in place.

"Trent does not 'have disagreements', Eodwulf," says Caleb blankly. "He has enemies, and then they die..."

Eodwulf shrugs with one shoulder, his expression grim. He glances at the clock and does not answer this statement.

“I promise I am not playing games with you.”

Caleb tries to absorb the words into his head, but it is like there is nowhere to put them.

“Ah...” He tries to think of something to say, and all he can think is that Eodwulf’s arms are absolutely littered with names. There must be – many dozens, at least a hundred, and that’s just what he can see.

Bren remembers Inge and Fellière. He remembers talking with a young (so young) Eodwulf about them, about both of their parents. He remembers Eodwulf writing to them. Missing them.

Inge had a hard life. And a hard death.

The aquamarine gems decorating her name shimmer like pure, rippling water.

Eodwulf clears his throat, dignified in a way he never was back then, even as his shirt sits on the bed next to him.

“You will die, or you will not die, and that will be my decision in seven minutes’ time, so please work with me, Caleb,” he says quietly. “Please.”

Caleb is still extremely sceptical - but more than that, he is confused. Presumably, the options are death or something worse – and yet… Well, the quickest way to lose would be to not even try.

“Do not call me ‘Caleb’,” he says finally, with a grimace. “What do you want?”

Eodwulf doesn’t seem happy, per se, but there is some clear relief.

“I need to know who released the Laughing Hand,” he says.

Caleb blinks. That is… unexpected, to say the least. In his mind’s eye, he immediately sees Yasha’s inhuman, twisted smile as it was hidden away by rumbling slabs of stone. Toothy, horrific mouths, piercing laughter. Dead angels.

“How do you – why do you think I know about that?” he manages.

Eodwulf shakes his head, actually breaking eye contact for the moment. He looks down at his arm, and rubs his thumb over a spot where there is no ink, and where Caleb knows – not from sight, but from memory – there is a small but deep-running scar.

“Please give me some credit, Caleb,” Eodwulf says darkly. “Even if it had not been proclaimed so publicly in the Kryn Empress’s court in Ghor Dranas, do you really believe the churches of the Empire would trust worshippers of this 'Luxon' to guard Bazzoxan without any degree of supervision at all?”

Caleb just frowns. He is stupid; of course not.

“Well may the Dynasty slit its own throat,” says Eodwulf. “But not all of us are prepared to live with horrors in our streets. If you tell me about the Laughing Hand, I will in turn tell you what the Cerberus Assembly and Master Ikithon know about you and your little group. I am confident that I know which of your secrets are really secrets - and which are not.”

Caleb’s heart thumps hard in his chest, though he tries to force an expression of stoicism. He is already tied to a chair by his ‘friend’, but the idea of Trent knowing, of the larger Assembly knowing about him, still badly rattles his nerves.

“Does that sound fair?” asks Eodwulf.

“How do – ah. How is it that you are planning to determine my fate?” Caleb counters.

Eodwulf rolls one of his shoulders, and speaks without hesitation.

“If you hold responsibility for knowingly aiding Torog’s Chosen, obviously your death will be my duty too.”

Caleb makes a low sound of understanding in the back of his throat. By the standards of the Vollstreckers (most Vollstreckers?), every ‘Krick’ in Bazzoxan could be held responsible for not adequately guarding the gate. It would not be the first town they razed.

Eodwulf wraps one hand around the holy symbol that hangs at his chest, squeezing tightly enough that the sharp edges of the Lawbearer’s ax-head shaped token must surely be digging into his hand.

“So?” he says. “Do you?”

“Who knows about Bren?” Caleb responds warily. “That he is – ah. That he is connected to Xorhas in some way?”

Eodwulf’s jaw twitches, and Caleb expects him to insist his captive go first. In one smooth movement, he gets up off the bed and strides over to the bloody greatsword to pick it up by the hilt. Caleb can see more of the ‘Kryn’ tally, if only for a moment, as Eodwulf moves. It counts at least up to thirty.

Eodwulf holds the greatsword steadily, without any apparent need of effort despite it being at least the length of Caleb’s leg. He runs his thumb over the blade, which is still wet and deep red, and all Caleb can think is that no, he really did not need yet another reminder that he is in no position to make demands.

Funnily enough, though-  
“I am not welcome in all circles,” Eodwulf says carefully, but briskly, after his moment of thought. “But I can make an... educated guess. Few will be certain you are even alive, but rumours of your life and your defection will have spread throughout the _Vollstreckers_ and into the Assembly by now.”

Caleb grips the arms of the chair hard, and pushes back into the backrest. His fingers and toes tingle. So. All of the most powerful mages in the Dwendalian Empire then.

And it is ‘defection’.

Eodwulf seems to notice this reaction. He smudges the blood from his thumb onto the clear area of his arm, to make a gritty, little red stripe.

“We will quell the gossip,” he says, but seems to rethink this and corrects himself to, “Master Ikithon... will quell the gossip. It’s an embarrassment, I think.”

This makes something old and weak twinge in Bren’s chest.

“An embarrassment,” he repeats mostly to himself.

“Did you knowingly awaken the Laughing Hand?” Eodwulf asks plainly.

He steps closer, lowering the silver greatsword so the tip is touching the ground once more, between Caleb’s feet. He draws an arcane symbol in the air, and the blood vanishes from the sword, and from his hands, though not from his arm. It is like he has marked out a space between the names.

“Caleb...” he begins slowly.

Caleb weighs up the benefits of silence in this moment. His breaths feel shallow.

“No,” he says finally. “No, I… I didn’t know that would happen. None of us did.”

Eodwulf swallows audibly, his grip on the sword handle tightening, as Caleb can see his knuckles whitening.

“You did not travel to the Umbra Gate to help release the Laughing Hand?”

Caleb swallows dryly.

“I was – ah. We were there. In the tomb, I was there. I saw it released, but we did not want it.” He hopes very much that he is not giving away his lifeline. “We fought. We even...” Caleb swallows thickly. “We lost one we were not prepared to lose. I did not do this, Eodwulf, I did not travel to the Umbra Gate to release anything.”

Eodwulf watches as Caleb speaks, very closely, but he must know he is telling the truth. His own spell has forbidden deceit. After a moment, he takes a step back.

“ _Gut,_ _”_ Eodwulf breathes out, shakily running one hand over his face, and in the moment it is like he is a completely different person. “Oh, merciful thanks. I mean – condolences, of course,” he corrects himself. “Sincerely, I-”

Eodwulf pauses then, though, a frown on his face. He looks slightly to the side, focused, and holds one finger up to Caleb. Caleb has seen enough of this kind of magic to be sure he has received a message of some kind.

Eodwulf goes to lean the greatsword back against the chair, but freezes as he does so. His expression darkens, his brow furrowing with transparent pain. He balances the sword carefully, and exhales, as if wounded.

When he responds to the message, though, it is with confidence, warmth and authority.  
“ _Se rende, maintenant_. Forget the head,” he says, using the coastal accent and language he had been speaking with originally.

He turns to the bed and picks up his shirt, slipping it on sleeves first and covering his tattooed arms. Now able to see Eodwulf’s back, Caleb can see more additional names; evidently his shoulder-blades are part of the canvas. To the left side, Caleb reads ‘Kind Widower’, articulated larger and more finely than many of the names, before it is covered once more by clothing.

“I am sorry I am not back yet, I will not be long…” Eodwulf is finishing. “Meet as discussed, _s'il vous plaît_.”

He pulls his shirt closed, seemingly taking a moment for himself as he begins to work out and re-thread the lacing at the front.

“ _Merde,_ Juli,” Eodwulf mutters heavily. He pulls his hair back, and ties it up once more, frowning. “ _Merde,_ Juli!” He finally turns back to look at Caleb. “ _Pardon_ , but-”

Eodwulf pauses, licking his lips as if to physically be rid of the accent and the urgency, as well as the language.

“As you can see, I do not have time to waste. Who are those allied to the Laughing Hand? Tell me. I understand there was a fiend, but-”

“When did you discover me?” Caleb counters quietly. “Was it in the Bright Queen’s court?” He swallows. “… Felderwin?”

Eodwulf frowns at him impatiently, and glances back at the clock as he pulls his shirt’s laces into place, hiding the tattoo over his broad chest.

“I confirmed that it was you when we spoke face to face at Shady Creek Run,” he says. “That was when… well, I could no longer deny it.”

Shady Creek Run.

_Shady Creek Run._

That was – what, four months ago? Caleb suppresses a shudder. He thinks about eyes on him when he hadn’t known they were there. He’d always known that was a possibility, of course, always told himself he was prepared, but... Caleb couldn’t manage half of his current arcane tricks four months ago. He had slept in camps off the side of roads. Competed in drinking contests in front of crowds. He feels an icy trickle run down his spine.

“ _Warum bist –_ ah...”

“You know that Master Ikithon met your friend in Zadash,” says Eodwulf. “Yasha. He tried to keep eyes on her – scry on her. But the magic kept failing. Master Ikithon...”

He hesitates, glancing at the clock and crossing his arms.

“Well, when Master Ikithon’s magic fails, there is usually some reason for it. And this was a warrior from Xorhas who seemed able to repeatedly fend off the Master’s Divinations; of course he wanted someone on the ground, keeping track.”

The amulet, now displayed as if with pride on Caleb’s chest, feels heavy. Caleb flexes his hands uncomfortably as much as he can within his bindings.

“Fortunately, he lost interest when I reported that the Xorhassian and two others had been abducted,” says Eodwulf briskly. “And that the dervish and later the hooded wizard had been lost to the blade. Master Ikithon would not waste resources tracing a mad goblin and a renegade Cobalt Soul turncoat.” His eyes look sad, but oddly impressed as he looks Caleb over. “It even took me a while to look back in.”

There is no hesitation in Eodwulf’s voice. The zone of truth still seems to be active, and Caleb is confused.

“The ‘hooded wizard’ is me.”

“Well, _j_ _a_...”

“What ‘blade’?” Caleb asks. The only blade had been Lorenzo’s, but by that point the others were near-to free. He feels stupid for even thinking it, but, “Did you invent a story - about a blade?”

“What?” says Eodwulf blankly. “No, that would be… that would be suicide.”

A strange, pained look crosses his face, and Caleb is definitely missing something here. He is about to ask for clarification, when his captor’s focus seems to return.

“Now tell me who is allied with the Laughing Hand,” says Eodwulf. “The fiend, and…?”

“Eodwulf...” Caleb says slowly.

“Time is running very, very short and I am being very forthcoming with you,” Eodwulf bites out, looking compulsively at the clock again, and crossing his arms.

“What happens after ten minutes?” 

Eodwulf gives a huff of impatience, and uncrosses his arms. In the same movement, he is drawing something from his belt that Caleb can’t quite see, and Caleb’s breath hitches.

“ _Eodwulf_ -”

Eodwulf squeezes, and presumably crushes, the spell components in his palm.

“I _suggest_ that, for the good of our homeland, you tell me who is in league with the demon summoner,” Eodwulf demands clearly.

The holy essence of the zone of truth disappears, but in the moment it does not occur to Caleb do to anything but answer to the best of his ability. He doesn’t want the Laughing Hand to destroy what is left of everything he loves.

“Yasha is allied to the fiend; that is why she was left behind. I do not know any others who serve the Angel of Irons.”

As soon as the words have left his mouth, the spell is complete. Caleb’s mouth tastes bitter. He twists at one of his feet reflexively, but it is of course still securely bound.

“It – ah. It really is not her though,” he says, trying to force his voice to flatten, to calm, even as his frayed nerves splinter further. He thinks of Yasha laughing. Yasha never had a loud laugh, or a broad smile, and he feels uncomfortable under Eodwulf’s fixed gaze. “That was not fair.”

Eodwulf’s eyes are still upon him, searching, but he is frowning now.

“You don’t even...” Eodwulf trails off, with something like sympathy. “I said the ‘demon summoner’, not the fiend.”

Caleb frowns, honestly perplexed. The emotional back and forth has become utterly exhausting, and he is about ready to fall apart, but surely he has not missed-

Wait.

“Eodwulf,” his own voice is suddenly clear. Warning.

“You have at the very least been led astray, I’m sorry,” Eodwulf tells him softly. “But – B- Caleb, you were travelling with a demon summoning warlock who was searching for ancient tombs below Bazzoxan, you must make this connection...”

Caleb glances back over to the now-clean, but previously very bloody, greatsword. He feels chills through his body. There had been so much blood.

“What have you done,” he says weakly, under his breath.

Eodwulf does not answer, and Caleb feels numb.

“Eodwulf, what have you _done?_ ” he tries to demand, but it is more of a plea.

“My duty,” says Eodwulf simply. It is gentle but not apologetic, and he rubs the heel of one hand over the spot on his forearm where there are no tattoos, where he had smeared the blood beneath his shirt. “His name was Fjord, _ja_?”

This is sharp. As opposed to the slow, twisting melancholy of thinking about Yasha, or the tense sensation of impending doom that comes from reflecting on his own position right now, this is pure and it just hurts. Caleb feels shocked tears on his face, but he can’t push them aside because he can’t move his hands, and Fjord is _dead_.

“ _Scheiße. Scheiße_ _s_ _cheiße_ _s_ _cheiße,_ oh no _..._ ” he mumbles to himself, mind clouded.

“You saw that man fight,” says Eodwulf carefully. “I saw it too. I first felt the evil - some time ago. I have seen him rip between planes, call forth hellish forces – a literal demon, Caleb, drawn forth from the Abyss...”

Jester will be distraught. Beauregard will… rampage.

Caleb lets out a breath he had not realised he was holding, and the sound is pitiful.

“Don’t _call_ me that,” is all he can think to say.

“I don’t know how he tricked you-”

“You have killed a good man,” Caleb interrupts, blinking his eyes clear to look Eodwulf in the face.

Eodwulf gives a nod of acceptance, but Bren knows him well enough to tell he does not believe this in the slightest.

“Sometimes ‘good men’ do irreparably bad things," he says mildly. "Sometimes, irredeemably ‘bad men’ do good things.”

Caleb gives a laugh that sounds more like a sob, remembering the image of the figure in grey-brown armour – Eodwulf – kicking Fjord into the dirt. Swinging again in a wide, glowing silver arch.

“There is a silent ‘j’,” he says bitterly, and wipes the itchy tear from his cheek as best he can with his shoulder. “After the ‘F’, in Fjord.”

Eodwulf opens his mouth to say something, but changes his mind and just nods. He looks at the clock. It has been almost nine minutes.

“Is he the only one?” Caleb can’t help but ask, though he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

Eodwulf's expression remains grim, but he inclines his head in a slight nod.  
“I’m sorry for your loss, Caleb," he says. "One of mine was lost today also.”

Caleb can’t help but shoot him a poisonous glare. One of Eodwulf’s nameless Scourger lackeys had died hunting Fjord. What a terrible _pity_.

Eodwulf seems mournful, but not necessarily offended by the response. He holds onto his holy symbol.

“Lawbearer,” he murmurs under his breath to himself – or, well, the Lawbearer. “No, there were two targets, and much as some might think it makes me… comparatively defective, I do not believe in collateral damage.” 

Caleb imagines the word 'anymore', and his head swims, because this man Eodwulf has become might possibly, somehow, care to differentiate between the lives he takes - and yet Fjord's blood is fresh upon his hands with no regret. Caleb watches through narrowed eyes as Eodwulf picks up his spellbook.

“Okay,” he is saying to himself under his breath. “Okay…”

“So, what are you going to do now, Eodwulf?” asks Caleb plainly. “I am the other target, _ja_?”

Eodwulf glances over his way and nods.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

“ _No_ ,” Caleb responds immediately, emphatically. Eodwulf smiles slightly, and it is a sad smile. Very sad.

Caleb still has not fully processed how just how long Eodwulf has known about him. It’s longer, for instance, than Caduceus has been in the Mighty Nein. A long time to go without having formally introduced himself.

“ _Have you told anybody about me?_ ” Caleb asks in Zemnian.

Eodwulf growls in the back of his throat.

“ _You would be long dead_ _._ _Of course I didn’t tell anybody,_ ” Eodwulf says flatly, matching his language, and Bren can hear the deep well of hurt in his voice hidden behind the spite. “ _I would never._ ”

“ _Eodwulf-_ ”

“ _ **Never** ,_” Eodwulf repeats firmly, even as he opens Caleb’s spellbook, and rips it apart with his hands, tearing the cover and the first few pages away.

Caleb cannot suppress a wince. He has looked at, re-read, and memorised those pages every day for a long, long time now. Years. His fingers itch.

“ _We are going to save your life,_ ” says Eodwulf. “ _I am not taking your head. You – you have to have a chance,_ _Bren_ _. That is important_ _to me_ _._ ”

“ _It has been sixteen years,_ ” says Caleb shakily.

He feels old and ignores the heat of tears in his eyes as Eodwulf tosses the cover and first, early pages of his spellbook onto the bunk, along with the looped leather straps of his book holster and his symbol from the Bright Queen.

“ _Yes, well. T_ _hey have not been kind years for me,_ ” says Eodwulf.

“ _Me as well_ _._ ”

Eodwulf seems to centre himself, and breathes out steadily.

“ _We’ll save your life,_ ” he says again. “ _Just don’t – just don’t speak in the Empress's court again. And you must choose a new name._ ”

Caleb narrows his eyes.

“ _Eodwulf, you are beginning to speak cryptically,_ ” he says. It is halfway towards being a question.

“ _If you make any more overt moves against the Empire, next time you will be executed,_ ” says Eodwulf. “ _There will be no avoiding it_.”

He is trying to be authoritative, but Bren can hear the tremor in his voice. Eodwulf opens a drawer in the desk, and thumbs through a couple of thick sheets of parchment. One of them, he removes and slips into Caleb’s other book.

“ _If you do kill me_...” says Caleb in a low voice.

Eodwulf grimaces, freezing for a moment. He glances over, and his eyes are shining a little too bright.

“ _… It would be ‘Caleb Widogast’. Yes?_ ”

Caleb gives a bitter smile.

“ _No. If you kill me, put fucking sparkles around Fjord’s name_ ,” he says. “ _I am no great loss, Eodwulf. But know that his death is a truly shameful mark upon your name and will forever corrupt everything you hope to become_.”

Eodwulf opens and closes his mouth, and he is a tall, strong, well-suffered man, but Bren has never seen him look so small. He can’t, it seems, find words, and looks away to close the desk. When he turns back, his face is wet with tears. Caleb tries to feel nothing.

It has been more than nine minutes.

Eodwulf pushes the heel of his hand against one of his eyes, to clear it.

“ _Do not reveal yourself to be alive_ ,” he says quietly. “ _To the Cerberus Assembly, I will have interrogated and killed you_.”

“ _You are going to lie_ ,” says Caleb, though he is fairly certain this is an incorrect statement.

“ _No, I am going to forget,_ ” Eodwulf says softly.

He picks up his silver greatsword, looking at the clock and giving a shuddering breath out.

“ _If you ever – if you experience holy, cleansing magic,_ ” Eodwulf says, “ _Good, pure, cleansing magic, and it… it hurts,_ ” he swallows. “ _Come to me. Don’t go to Master Ikithon – and you must not_ ever _go to Astrid. Don’t go to Martinet De’leth; come to me._ ”

Caleb frowns at Eodwulf.

He thinks of cobwebs again. He thinks of sudden clarity after a haze of grey. He thinks of a mad woman.

There is still another twenty seconds. Caleb opens his mouth, not quite sure what he is going to say. How he might ask - would he ask?

As it is, he manages barely a grunt as, with a flash of silver, Eodwulf swings his greatsword, hard. Caleb hears an almighty crack as the handle hits the back of his head.

Everything flashes white, and then grey-black.

Caleb very faintly thinks he hears the sound of metal clanking against wood.

He can’t be sure if it is his imagination, but he feels an echo of cool, dry lips against his temple. Despite it all, barely awake, he is reassured. He's safe. He's home.

Caleb loses consciousness at nine minutes and fifty-one seconds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Modify Memory**  
> ... You can affect the target's memory of an event that it experienced within the last 24 hours and that lasted no more than 10 minutes. You can permanently eliminate all memory of the event, allow the target to recall the event with perfect clarity and exacting detail, change its memory of the details of the event, or create a memory of some other event.  
> ... A Remove Curse or Greater Restoration spell cast on the target restores the creature's true memory.
> 
> _(I know that by RAW, Modify Memory targets another creature, but Eodwulf is no novice here. He adapted this to fulfil a need.)_
> 
> **EODWULF STATS** for the purposes of this story:  
> Wizard 11 (School of Transmutation)/Paladin 5 (Oath of Redemption) - his deity is Erathis, the Lawbearer  
> Strength: 17 Dexterity: 10 Constitution: 12  
> Intelligence: 19 Wisdom: 8 Charisma: 20  
> (Since Strong, he got stat increases to Strength and Intelligence, and got a magical tattoo for +1 CHA (aquamarine dust))
> 
> +thanks to the lovely folk in the widofjord discord for help with French.  
> +apologies to the lovely folk in the widofjord discord for not writing widofjord and instead... killing Fjord...  
> (still, two level 10 healers in the party, right guys? right?)


	3. One Hour

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Change of title! Ten Minutes no longer fit; sorry for any confusion.  
> Also, **this is the final chapter of this fic.** The last posted chapter, nerdy as it may be, will just contain the D&D mechanics from the rest of it.  
> Thank you so much for reading, and I hope you like it... this story took me places. xxxx

This may be a stalemate.

The holy magic of the Lawbearer resonates through the small, bunker-like room, a steadfast ward against lies, but it is rendered fairly ineffective when its intended target refuses to speak. Bren ( _Caleb_ ) is just sitting, in the heavy wooden chair. Silent.

Wulf tries very hard to match his stillness.

Since the initial jolt of shock upon awakening bound to a chair, _Caleb_ has not seemed to pay any mind to the alchemically treated silk ropes. They are wound around his arms, from the elbows down to his (so familiar) knobbly, ink-stained fingers, to prevent any arcane hand gestures. He hasn’t tried to uncurl his hands from the arms of the chair, nor has he pulled against the similar ropes binding his ankles to the chair’s legs. He hasn’t glanced over at his possessions and, unsurprisingly, seems to pay no mind to his ragged clothes.

Wulf is painfully aware of them, though. The fabric is too soft, too dark. The neckline is all wrong, the patterning on the discarded coat too geometrical, and all of the finely tailored hemlines are far too narrow. Humans simply do not dress in clothes this jarringly, damningly Kryn, even in Xorhas.

“At least tell me what you want in the Dynasty,” says Wulf, voice low and steady though his heart is racing and his fingers tingle. One hand, he keeps by the components at his hip, and with the other he loosely grips the handle of his silver greatsword. “Perhaps you are no defector, but you must tell me what you are.”

Caleb Widogast, the man who is Bren, says nothing.

Wulf almost wishes that he did not know the vivid, sharp blue of Caleb’s eyes. Almost wishes that the line of Caleb’s jaw was not so familiar, or that the rhythm of his carefully controlled breathing was new and did not conjure memories from half a lifetime ago. This would be easier if, when time had hardened Bren’s features, etched lines upon his brow and changed his name, it had been kind enough to turn him into a stranger.

“The Kryn Empress favours you substantially,” Wulf pushes, “Your group… you do not behave as independent agents but surely you are not loyal Dynasty operatives for its own sake?”

When Caleb still doesn’t answer, Wulf bites the tip of his tongue and picks up his sword more firmly, swinging it up so the long blade is horizontal. He does not harm the bound man, does not necessarily even threaten him. Not exactly. Just holds the bloody blade less than a foot from Caleb’s face, close enough to smell the metallic tang of death.

Wulf runs his thumb across the familiar silver, picking up grit and half-orc blood. It is drying, but it is still sticky.

Any regular weapon would have lost the heat of battle entirely by now, too, but Wulf does not wield a regular weapon. The pure silver of the _Final Word_ is still warm, cooling at roughly the pace one would expect of a fresh corpse slowly becoming lost to the sands in the twilight desert of Xorhas.

Wulf rubs the tacky blood between his fingers grimly.

Caleb thins his lips, and his eyes scan Wulf’s face. The thin, auburn scruff upon his cheeks is darker than it was even months ago, his skin fairer. Perhaps this is because he has not seen the sun in weeks.

“ _Eodwulf,_ _if_ _you wanted to kill me, that massive bloody sword would_ _have already shattered through my chest to split my heart in two._ _Y_ _es_ _?_ ” he says finally, in Zemnian.

Regardless of the words, his voice sounds like home.

Wulf grips his weapon tighter, ears faintly ringing.

“ _I don’t –_ _‘want’_ _to kill you,_ ” he mutters. “ _You are a target._ _T_ _hat can’t come as a surprise?_ ”

Bren’s mouth twitches like he is considering smiling, and his gaze does not stray from Wulf’s.

“ _Oh, my friend…_ _Have you begun to resent living at the whim of others?_ ” he asks, soft and dark, though not ungentle. “ _My sympathies; I thought you found it comfortable_ _to follow orders_ _. Soothing. Like_ _warm honey, steadily filling_ _your throat._ ”

The air tastes bitter. Wulf swallows thickly.

“ _You still live_ _,_ _Caleb,_ ” he says lowly, through his teeth. “ _What do you think that means?_ ”

Bren raises one eyebrow, glancing around the room albeit briefly. He does not, it seems, want to look away from Eodwulf for more than a moment.

“ _Surely you of all people have not_ _found a taste for torture?_ ”

“ _What? No!_ ” Wulf responds before he can think.

Bren snickers impishly, leaning back in the chair, and Wulf tells himself that those almost manic blue eyes do not belong to a brother, nor a superior, nor a friend. It’s not Bren. It is simply not.

He rests the tip of his blade between Bren’s ( _Caleb’s_ ) feet, the sharp silver edge digging slightly into the wood of the floor. Caleb looks between Wulf’s face and the bloodied silver.

“ _I hope you didn’t kill all of them_ ,” he says, though if there is concern in his voice, Wulf can’t hear it. “ _Do you even think about it anymore?_ ”

“ _ **Comment oses-t**_ _ **u!**_ ” Wulf retorts immediately, feeling adrenaline sweep through him as he snaps into the language of the sea, _Inselkind_. Finally, the ripple of righteous rage he should have felt months ago. “Of course I do!”

Wulf swallows, frustrated, and reaches forward to grasp the undefended amulet hanging from his once-friend’s neck.

“You have no right to this,” he says in authoritative Common. “You have no right to hide from us.”

Caleb’s carefully controlled, calculatedly casual breathing stutters, his knuckles whitening and eyes widening ever so slightly. The amulet feels surprisingly delicate in Wulf’s hand.

“Who is ‘us’, Eodwulf? Just old friends?” Caleb asks quickly, and actually leans forward a little to preserve the chain when Wulf tugs gently on the amulet. “You clearly do not speak for the _Vollstreckers_ or I would be dead already; if Trent has – ah - donated your service to the Concord, they have no ill will towards me-”

Caleb’s gaze flickers down to Wulf’s neck, where there is of course no amulet. He just has his holy symbol and vicious, angry scars around his throat, each one a constant reminder.

Wulf squeezes his hand closed around Caleb’s amulet, silently calling on the Lawbearer for aid.

“Eowulf, look past your orders, _wir sind_ – ah – we are on the same side _-”_ Caleb stutters out hasily, and his hands begin to blacken even where they are bound. His arcane fire is not quick enough.

The amulet’s magic shatters in Wulf’s hand, the protective aura dying with an over-loud snap. In a flash, it is turned to pure silver. Radiant, shining, and mundane. In another flash, it is charcoal, and it crumbles between his fingers.

For a moment there is silence.

“You do not know what you have done,” Caleb Widogast whispers under his breath, even as the sparks at his hands bloom into roaring flame and burn through his bindings like paper. In the flickering orange of the firelight, his frightened half-smile is almost deranged. “But let us just see, ‘mon ami’.”

\- - -

Caleb wakes to the sound of his own violent coughing, pain shooting through his rib cage with every contraction of his chest. His lips and skin are dry, irritated by the dull, cool scratch of Xorhassian desert sand as it is stirred by lazily swirling wind currents. He gives a groan and pushes himself up on one elbow to at least lift his face off of the ground.

“ _Scheiße_ ,” he curses under his breath, and coughs again, spitting out sand from his mouth, and brushing it from his eyelashes with the back of one hand.

How poetic, to be spared execution just to choke on sand.

Caleb’s mind is quick, and sharp, and the moment he gives a consideration to where he is, he remembers everything with perfect clarity. Eodwulf – _Eodwulf_ – claiming to have followed the Mighty Nein, on and off, for months. The attack in the desert, with the wizards Eodwulf seems to command and yet conceals his language and his heritage from. The abduction, the ropes, pale skin serving as an expanding moratorium. Fjord’s lifeblood dripping from a massive silver greatsword. Caleb takes a shuddering breath in as he recalls it all at once, and of course this is just another lungful of air thick with swirling sand. He ducks his head again, protecting his face with his arms to try to catch a clean breath in between hacking coughs.

He has been unconscious, he senses, for thirty-two minutes, most of which was presumably spent right here, sprawled out in the sand. His tunic, he can feel, is half shredded, with everything under his left arm ripped away by arcane ice, and that and his trousers are littered with no longer bloody cuts from an explosion of arcane blades.

He cannot feel his amulet against his chest. Caleb’s head pounds suddenly, swimming with noxious, instinctual panic as this stay of execution feels short-lived and cruel – but when he reaches for it, it is there. It is still there.

The amulet hangs outside of his clothes and rests on the sandy ground beneath his chest – but it is on its chain and secure around his neck. He still has the benefit of its magic, after almost six long years.

Shakily, Caleb tucks the amulet safely inside of his tunic, near to his somehow still-beating heart.

“So, you have woken up yet again?” he mutters to himself croakily. “The scavengers go without. This is… certainly fortune beyond anything you deserve.”

He spits again, trying to get the grit out of his mouth – but it’s okay. The irritation of sand between his teeth makes it easier not to think about Eodwulf’s sincere eyes and the tremor in his hands, his bloody sword and targeted murder. The stinging of dry air and the ache in Caleb’s bones is better to focus on than the fact that he is without his powerful friends. _And Fjord..._ He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head to loosen the sand that has nestled itself in his hair.

So. Alone in a desert frequented by rocs, indiscriminate hunters, and lumbering beasts with four arms and tusks the size of a man.

“ _G_ _et it together_ _you worm,_ ” Caleb mutters quietly to himself in Zemnian, and finally pushes himself to sit upright.

The gentle, sandy winds are keeping quite low to the ground, and even as he observes the landscape, the air current moves on to disturb the next dune. Caleb can see his belongings on the ground in a heap just next to him, also covered in sand. He crawls over to them on his knees.

Everything seems to be piled just as it had been on Eodwulf’s desk, wherever that had been. Caleb’s boots, his scarf, his armour, and his coat are all arranged just as he remembers (and of course Caleb’s memory is impeccable), with nothing in the pockets seemingly disturbed. Caleb empties the sand from his boots and shakes it free of his clothes as best he can before re-dressing.

The horizon is familiar, and Caleb can see nothing moving aside from sand being gently disturbed by desert breezes before resettling. He is very close to where the fight had been, actually, though any physical sign of it has been blown away or buried. About two hundred feet to the North, he can see the patch of familiar, dark Xorhassian trees. They are uneven but cover the landscape thickly, as if they are all squeezing in to inhabit the couple of fertile hills in the middle of the desert. To the West, in the distance, mountains. There is nothing else here. Caleb unties his hair and combs away as much of the sand as he can with his fingers.

Caleb’s symbol from the Bright Queen is not in the pile of his belongings, which seems about right. His book holster is gone too, along with the front cover and early pages of his spellbook that Eodwulf ripped free. Most of it is in tact though. None of his Dunamancy spells have been impacted.

Caleb snaps his fingers, and his cat stands before him, immediately annoyed by the sandy ground. Frumpkin spends only a moment considering the dune beneath his feet before leaping up onto Caleb’s shoulder and curling around his neck.

“Be careful. We must take good care of you now,” Caleb says to Frumpkin in Common. “If you are hurt and banished back to the other place, you may be stuck there for a little while. I... have lost your page.” He pauses, and scritches Frumpkin’s fluffy cheek apologetically. Frumpkin pushes back against Caleb’s fingers, purring. “For now, you understand. Just for now.”

Frumpkin understands completely, of course; he is the best cat. He begins to kneed at Caleb’s scarf, to clean the sand from his claws. Caleb focuses on that as best he can.

In the sand beneath where Caleb’s belongings had been, there is a rock. It is no special shape or anything, pointed on one end and flat on the other and about the size of his palm. Caleb wouldn’t have even noticed it, except that it had been directly beneath his coat. Looking closer, the rock is streaked with veins of some kind of blue gem, the likes of which Caleb has not seen outside of the Mighty Nein’s adventures at sea. Many of the jagged streaks of blue meet in the centre of the rock, giving it the illusion of having a blue ring around it, and when Caleb touches it, it feels… cold. It feels like cold, soothing mercy, faintly surrounding his body and running in his blood. He pulls his hand back as if burned.

Of course, the smart thing to do would be to try to identify the item’s properties for sure. Perhaps it was dropped by mistake, perhaps on purpose, and Caleb cannot know what the consequences may be either way. But the page in his spellbook that allows him to learn the nature of items has been ripped in half, so he does not have that luxury. He will just need to exercise caution.

Caleb picks up the rock and puts it safely in his pants pocket. The feeling of magic remains. He has an idea of it, a silly idea... but he thinks it is safe.

Lastly, Caleb considers his other book, its plain cover having entirely resisted any sand, dust, or blood as it has done for seventeen years. Despite the time pressure, Caleb takes two minutes and forty-one seconds to decide whether to even look inside at whatever Eodwulf has slipped inside of it.

In the end, he does look. He is not that much of a coward. The thick parchment is easy to find.

It’s just a scroll – it’s flattened out, which is odd, but it is certainly a scroll. Caleb can make a pretty good guess as to what spell it carries, too, based on the arcane symbols. This is a spell to send messages across great distances, like what Jester can do.

At the top there are newer letters, written in handwriting that resembles Eodwulf’s familiar script, but neater, and of course it is in Zemnian:

_Please come to me first._

Caleb swallows dryly.

Crackling. Screaming. Cobwebs.

He snaps the book shut, and Frumpkin gives a mewl of complaint.

“There is no time for ah – for rumination,” Caleb tells his cat hypocritically, “If we are very fortunate, the others may still be nearby.” He rubs Frumpkin’s neck with the tips of his fingers. Frumpkin is happy to accept this and begins to purr sleepily in a warm, calming rumble.

Caleb gathers his two books up under one arm and sets off towards the trees.

He tries to keep his footsteps light and swift, and although he had not been harmed in the open, even when unconscious, he is still relieved to reach the relative cover of the shadowy treeline. The wooded area is more dense and the canopy far thicker than he had imagined from afar. As soon as he steps into the darkness, he becomes largely hidden from any eyes that may linger in the wide open plains of the desert.

Unable to see much, Caleb reaches for one of the pockets near his waist, to his own Transmuter’s Stone. He draws some arcane runes in the air, to make himself more swift of foot, and changes the nature of his Stone to allow himself to see in the dark. He does not have people to see for him, after all.

Blinking with newfound sight, Caleb can see the ground, thick with what looks like dry, long-fallen foliage, except for the intermittent patches of something thick and blue-green. He can hear high pitched trilling, ever so soft, without any clear direction of origin, but aside from that, it is silent. Without speaking, Caleb tells Frumpkin to watch out behind them as they go. He does not take his cat away from the relative safety of his shoulders as he begins to move through the trees and undergrowth looking for any sign of the Mighty Nein.

The first time Caleb brushes against what looks to be a fern, tiny barbed hooks latch onto his coat, sticking in like needles. A pulse of magic helps him freeze perfectly still before the barbs can sink deep enough to reach his skin. Caleb tries to pull back, but the leaf of the fern moves with him. Okay.

He breathlessly finds the dagger sheathed in his coat, and uses it to pry the leaf away. Each of the barbs leaves a tiny track of moisture on the blade.

So, no touching the foliage then. Better yet, no touching anything.

It is an exercise in patience, and self control, to pick his way through the trees. There is no guarantee that the remaining members of the Mighty Nein ever came here, and even if they did, they might already have moved on. Shadowhand Essek or even Yussa Errenis may well consider Fjord’s death worthy of a moment of their time to get the rest to safety, and as much as Caleb flatters himself hoping that they would at least look for him first, he cannot be scried upon and was unconscious for more than half an hour. It would be entirely sensible for his friends to have left him for dead. It’s what he would have done.

Caleb swallows his anxiety forcefully. He reminds himself that the Mighty Nein are better people than that, than him. He holds onto the thought as he carefully weaves his way around two patches of blue and black moss.

It takes nineteen minutes for Caleb to find the first sign of his friends. It’s Frumpkin who picks it up, soft in the air. A scent. Caleb sniffs for it, but at first there is nothing.

“Where?” he whispers almost silently.

Caleb carefully navigates through a cluster of narrow trees, not touching the tall grass of some that seems to grow from inside of them. Then, he pauses again by a thicker, purple trunk, finally picking up the scent in the air. It is not perfectly familiar but familiar enough, a known aroma blended with something alien. Incense – Caduceus’s, Caleb is quite sure. He does not send Frumpkin in ahead, but keeps him around his neck and, without speaking, tells his familiar not to make a sound.

Caleb begins to pick a silent path closer to the origin of the scent.

Then, out of nowhere, a sharp, solid pain to the gut just below his rib cage, in exactly the right spot to extract all of the air from his lungs and make his body spasm with the sudden shock. Before he can move even slightly, there is an elbow at his throat, smacking him against a tree and threatening to crush his larynx, and Frumpkin yowls, springing from his shoulders.

He sees a glimpse of Beauregard’s hardened expression, before a crushing pain around his midsection just above the hips makes his eyes water anew. Sharp claws dig into his back, and he would yelp if he wasn’t effectively being choked. He tries to swallow, but Beauregard’s elbow is still pressed hard against his windpipe.

“Is it you-?” she begins, even as Caleb hears Nott’s wavering shriek from where she is hugging him around the waist,

“Caleb we thought you had been killed!”

Nott somehow, impossibly, squeezes even tighter and Caleb tries to make some sound around Beauregard’s elbow but no, he still can’t breathe. She leaves it for another long moment, squinting through the darkness at Caleb’s face as if looking for some kind of evidence. Beauregard’s lip curls suspiciously and she draws back just enough. Caleb gulps in a breath and coughs, slightly lightheaded. Beauregard’s arm still keeps his head raised, and less than an inch of movement would see him basically incapacitated once more.

“Is it you,” she says again darkly.

Caleb remains still as he feels Nott let him ago, and the barest wisp of rustling by his stomach. Frumpkin growls low, stalking near his feet.

“These look like his spell components,” Nott is saying from below Caleb’s field of vision where she is presumably rifling through his pockets like a pro.

Beauregard’s eyes are focused imperfectly in the low light, and slightly swollen. Her cheeks are reddened, skin irritated.

“ _J_ _a_ , it is me,” Caleb manages breathlessly. “Beauregard, I could prove-”

“Fuck it, it’s him,” says Beauregard flatly, removing her arm from its threatening position at his throat. Caleb coughs again, and rubs at his throat with his free hand. “Pretty sure it’s him.”

Caleb snaps his fingers to send Frumpkin to safety, his heartbeat fluttering. Nott puts his pearl and tiny satchel of powder back into one of his coat pockets only slightly guiltily, and he gives her a wary nod of appreciation.

“Knew you’d escape,” says Beauregard. She crosses her arms, jaw set, and the muscle of her bicep twitches. “Took you long-”

“Oh God Caleb, we were _so sure_ you were dead!” Nott interrupts loudly, and hugs his midsection once more, again with strength beyond what Caleb had believed her capable. She presses her face into his hip. “We thought he’d killed you, you disappeared so fast...”

Caleb leans down awkwardly to touch her upper back.

“That is – ah,” he says awkwardly. “That is fair.”

The adrenaline, and the tension, is so strong. The muscles in Nott’s back are pulled taut, solid against Caleb’s hand, and Beauregard doesn’t usually shift her weight awkwardly from foot to foot unless she is deeply uncomfortable – trying to be appropriate, for instance, or worse, exercising patience. Beauregard glances at the trees to the East, though they look the same as in any other direction, and gnaws at her already red bottom lip.

“But… Fjord?” says Caleb uncertainly, not sure what else to do with that sentence, and Beauregard crosses her arms tightly and glares at the ground as if to try and suppress what are very obvious fresh tears welling in her eyes.

“We’ve got to get him back,” she manages stiltedly. “We're about to. Five fucking arcane – this is bullshit.”

Caleb blinks, looking between the two of them.

“ _Bitte_ – Beauregard, what?” he asks. “We can get him back?”

Nott finally unwraps her arms from his waist, and instead he feels the scrape of her claws as she holds onto his pants behind the knee in a way she never has before. She doesn’t step away from him either.

“Caduceus is doing a ritual,” she says shakily. It is only by virtue of his Transmuter’s Stone giving him clear vision in the near darkness that Caleb can see the twitch at the corner of Nott’s eye, but in any circumstances he would recognise the deep anxiety in her voice. “He said we can help, but...”

“We’re supposed to be coming up with ways to convince the Wildmother to send back her own fucking chosen one or whatever!” Beauregard bursts out. “That sounds like bullshit right? We don't have any time.”

“And we need to try and... convince him to come back,” Nott adds, by comparison almost silent. “In case he doesn’t know if… he wants to.”

Caleb would instinctively move closer to her, except that Nott is already literally pressed against his leg. Her claws twist at the back of his knee, but he doesn’t say anything.

“He wants to come back!” says Beauregard uncertainly. She seems to hear the lack of assurance in her own voice, and scowls, stomping aggressively over to a nearby tee and then storming back. “Fuck fuck fuck _fuck!_ Fjord would be so much better at this!”

“You should do it,” says Nott. “Caleb, you’re so charming and clever. You should help.”

Caleb doesn’t know what to do with that – he never really does. But the weight in his chest is substantial; it is unjust – outrageous – that Caleb’s sordid history should come back and leave him possibly safer than he was before, in exchange for Fjord’s ruthless and meaningless death.

“I want to,” he says after a moment. “It is not my speciality, Nott, but if there is anything within my power...”

“We should go back then, shouldn’t we?” says Nott, glancing at him and Beauregard though she does not wait for an answer before pushing the back of Caleb’s knee to get him to walk.

“Hold up,” says Beauregard, standing between Nott and Caleb and what is presumably the direction of the others. “Wizards are… freaky as hell – no offence.”

Caleb frowns.

“I don’t want a fucking fireball crashing my friend’s resurrection.”

Caleb holds tighter to his books.

“Beauregard I do not believe I am being followed… They would have a hard time as you know.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Beau!” Nott scolds, taking a half step forward defensively.

Caleb’s heartbeat thumps in his ears.

“Beauregard,” he says carefully. “I swear to you, I swear to both of you: I am not... newly cosy with the _Vollstreckers_.”

Beauregard winces, but stands her ground.

“I’m not – that’s not the only way it could go. You know I’m not off base here, you have been missing for like, an hour.”

“I was unconscious for a lot of it...”

“That is not better, Caleb,” says Beauregard. “You know that is not better.”

Caleb swallows, and pushes some sandy hair from his face. Apparently it is a sudden movement though, because Beauregard’s stance shifts, and even Nott turns sharply to face him, letting go of his leg.

“I want to help,” he says. “I think I can help.” He thinks of Eodwulf’s heavy boot, kicking Fjord in the chest. The glimmering gems surrounding Eodwulf’s parents names. He wonders if Beauregard would believe him, even if he did open up a vein and explain everything.

“We don’t have time to make sure you are yourself,” says Beauregard. “Nott, you know that, right?”

Nott doesn’t answer the question.

“We have to get back to Caduceus or it won’t matter either way,” she says. “For Fjord.”

Caleb licks his lips, searching his memory, and it all seems to be in place (then again, of course it would).

He hesitates, and then begins to unbutton his coat once more.

“Okay, take my arcane components; if I am lying you can grind me into paste before I do any damage.”

He pulls the coat off in one, a bit awkwardly as he needs to juggle his books in his arms, and pushes it into Beauregard’s arms. She looks doubtful, but holds out her hands to take it. She glances at his shredded shirt and dented armour, or possibly the lack of wounds to his torso.

“Here, these as well,” Caleb adds shakily, pulling his vial of molasses and sachet of iron filings from the back pocket of his trousers and offering them to Nott. She accepts them.

After a moment, Nott says quietly,

“Copper wire.”

Caleb immediately takes the copper wire from the pocket where the also keeps his Transmuter’s Stone. Even Eodwulf hadn’t searched him thoroughly enough to have taken that. Caleb looks at the books under his arm.

“Ah, you may as well,” he mutters.

He puts his books on top of the coat in Beauregard’s arms.

“I always figured one day I’d have to carry your fucking... books,” she says under her breath, not quite managing the levity she is going for. She also seems to only now notice his spellbook’s missing cover, and the page torn in half. “Huh.”

Nott and Beauregard share a look, and Nott putts the loose components he had given her into one of the pockets in her skirt.

“No distracting Caduceus or I’ll punch you out,” says Beauregard.

Caleb nods seriously.

“Please do,” he says under his breath.

Nott grabs Caleb’s hand sombrely.

“Okay, come on,” she says. “Through here.” She pulls him him towards the source of the sweet scent of incense.

As Nott leads him through the trees, Caleb can see that they are moving to an area with less of the strange plant life – and what fungi or leaves do look potentially dangerous have been burnt away presumably by one of the clerics. Beauregard follows behind the both of them. Her gaze prickles the back of Caleb’s neck, but she also mutters something under her breath about the Wildmother, so he’s pretty sure her attention is at least split.

The space that Caleb’s friends have set up for the ritual is clear, and flat, and lit up by what must be all of the candles possessed by the Mighty Nein. The flickering flames create eerie patterns on the purple wood of the surrounding trees, and Caleb suspects that some of the colourful fungi growing from their bark have probably been helped along by Caduceus.

In the centre of the makeshift grove lies the body of Fjord. Caleb has seen dead bodies before, of course, but there is something so immediate and jarring about the fact that Fjord, seemingly so safe and surrounded by friends, is not breathing. Caduceus is sitting, cross-legged by his head. A circle of tiny, colourful mushrooms surrounds Fjord’s body, and even as Caleb arrives, Caduceus cups his hands over a blank spot in the circle, and a shocking blue little fungus grows to fill it.

On the other side of Fjord’s body, Jester is knelt, rocking ever so slightly. She looks up when Caleb and the others get back and, even now, gasps with a broad smile upon seeing him, alive. She raises her hand to give a little wave, and glances only momentarily at the pile of Caleb’s belongings in Beauregard’s arms. Her cheeks are wet though, and there is blood all down the front of her dress. In fact, now that Caleb is focusing on it, he can see that Fjord is the only one who seems to have been cleaned up even a little bit (aside, of course, from himself). Nott is still tracking sand, Caduceus’s pale skin is smudged with soot and blood, and Beauregard still has a very ugly wound to her shoulderblade that Caleb recognises as an acid burn. After the battering he received, Fjord has nothing more than a scratch on his cheek, which has clearly been cleaned and had ointment applied.

“He’s almost ready,” says Caduceus calmly. He glances up at the newcomers, and his soft eyes warm, though he seems strangely unsurprised to see Caleb.

“Right,” says Beauregard. “Right. Fuck.”

She goes around to kneel next to Jester, putting Caleb’s belongings down behind her, while Nott pulls Caleb over to sit opposite them with Fjord laid in the middle. Jester’s special paints are spread out in front of her, which seems a bit odd. The paintbrush is wet. When she notices Caleb looking, what is left of her smile melts away, replaced by a torrent of new tears, and she crosses her arms over herself, looking back down at Fjord. Beauregard rubs her upper arm reassuringly.

Caduceus cups his hands over another point in the circle, and a soft pink mushroom sprouts, its gills a vivid light red. He looks at Beauregard.

“Is she listening?” asks the monk with transparent discomfort.

“Always,” Caduceus tells her with a satisfied half-smile that she does not seem to appreciate. “But especially now.”

He takes in a long breath and releases it, and Caleb finds himself mimicking this action, to try to relax even just a little. Caduceus is the only who doesn’t seem close to the brink of mental collapse.

Beau’s shoulders are extremely tense, and she holds her hands together, looking at the body of Fjord.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, Fjord. Um. Wild...mother. Fuck, Fjord, I’m going to suck at this.”

Her breaths are shallow, and she twists her hands together. Jester goes to say something, but pauses as Beauregard seems to refocus. She lowers herself down to sit with her legs crossed, and scoots closer to the circle of colourful fungi, eyes fixed upon Fjord’s motionless face.

“Okay,” she says again. “Okay…Fjord, you have taught me a lot. About what strength is, and what it looks like. I want to use that, to talk to you and your… the Wildmother.”

She breathes, and her eyes are watering, but she is not covering it up. Instead, Beauregard sits up straight as if a tear wasn't streaking down her already reddened cheek. She reaches forward with one hand to touch her fingers to Fjord’s unmoving chest.

“I just want to ask, with sincerity, without being sarcastic or facetious or defensive or f-.” She bites her lip and does not swear. She blinks, and tears run unheeded down her face, and Caleb feels like he should look away. In a small voice, Beauregard asks: “Will you come back home, Fjord? Please.”

Caleb feels a lump in his throat, and looks down at the body of Fjord.

His hair has been combed, the white steak laying in an elegant swoop. He would seem so healthy if he was not unnaturally still. In fact, now that Caleb is looking at him... it’s actually not clear how he even died. Do healing spells work on a person after they are dead? There is a cut on his face, so presumably not.

Caleb thinks of the blood on the silver greatsword, and looks at Fjord’s scratched armour, and what looks like a superficial slash to his arm.

Caleb looks over at Jester’s paints. The ones at the front, which seem to have been used, are white, black, green, blue, and yellow.

 _Forget the head_ , Eodwulf had said when he had received a message from his Scourgers.

Caleb feels suddenly, badly nauseous, and rubs his forearm with one shaking hand.

There is a strange splotch – just small, about the size of Caleb’s thumb – beneath his left ear. It’s too blue, like shaking hands had spilled blue paint and tried to correct the mistake hastily before it dried.

There is so much blood on Jester’s dress.

“Wildmother, Fjord is not done,” Beauregard is saying. “He barely – he has barely had a chance.” There is a muscle twitching in her jaw, and clearly every instinct she has is being suppressed. Beauregard rolls her shoulders and it seems to take intense focus _not_ to stifle a sob. “Please give him a chance to be a champion. For you, and us. And himself?”

A warm breeze seems to come from nowhere through the clearing, and Beauregard gives a surprised hiccup, looking around for some sign of where it could have come from, but there is nothing.

Caduceus breathes with ease, closing his eyes as if to feel every moment of it, and Jester rubs the top of Beauregard’s back encouragingly.

“Nott?” says Caduceus calmly after a long moment has passed. He looks over at Nott, and Caleb can feel her twitch at his side, almost violently. This doesn’t seem to bother Caduceus, who glances at Caleb. “Or… ?”

Caleb clears his throat uncertainly. They have only talked about these rituals in the vaguest terms, so he’s not really sure what to do. But he has this feeling, for lack of a better term. Ordinarily, Caleb would not trust that at all, but it seems like that’s all they have to go on, and he’s not _against_ the vague hope of faith per se. That’s where miracles come from.

He has a feeling that Fjord's death isn't just bad, it's not just painful. He's pretty sure it’s not _right_. In a very fundamental, vague, faith-y kind of way.

Caleb reaches into his pocket and just holds onto the rock with the veins of blue gem. The very mild feeling of cool, soothing magic is still there; it hasn’t stopped since he’s been holding it. Everyone is looking at him.

“Ah, _ja_ , I want to… ah,” Caleb begins uncertainly. He has to focus.

Caduceus takes a satchel from his waist, and pours a small but immensely valuable, beautiful collection of diamonds into one of his large hands.

Focus.

Caleb mimics Beauregard’s action and lowers himself down to cross his legs. He shifts closer to the body of Fjord, as close as he can get without disturbing the circle of fungi. Caleb reaches forward, and picks up one of Fjord’s limp arms. It is warmer than he had expected – not very warm, but warm. Caleb recognises the scar on his palm. He grips onto Fjord’s forearm, and with his other hand, closes Fjord’s limp fingers around his own arm like he is holding on. Like he will again hold on again. Hopefully.

Caleb breathes carefully, and summons his strongest self.

“This is an accident of fate. It’s not right,” he says. He looks around at the trees, at the mushrooms, and hopes that the Wildmother will hear him. He raises his voice, even though it would be absurd if that was how this worked. “This death is not the will of the Lawbearer!”

For the first time, Caduceus looks slightly uncertain, and that is not a good sign, but Caleb ignores it because his own feelings are all he has to go on, and he’s right about this. He really is.

“It is a tragic - ah… a tragic perversion of her will. If Fjord does not awaken today, his death will be a loss unto Melora and a shame unto Erathis.”

Caleb licks his dry lips and squeezes his eyes shut, to speak in melodic Celestial.

“ _Her_ _instrument is broken._ _Send Fjord home._ ”

He squeezes Fjord’s arm, hoping. Desperately hoping.

There is no warm breeze. Fjord has no heartbeat. This magic doesn’t make sense, miracles don’t make sense. This is not Caleb’s strong suit.

Caleb opens his eyes again before his panic can spiral too far. Caduceus is leaning over Fjord now, cupping the handful of perfect, glittering diamonds between his hands. Something resembling pure white roots begin to grow from Caduceus’s hands, and Caleb does not let go of Fjord for even a moment, feeling like at any second his body might be literally yanked away.

Caduceus’ hands shake just a bit as he seems to try to bring them together. The white roots surge forward, growing and twisting, and as they begin to splinter into the diamonds they glow almost blindingly bright, and Caleb can barely see through the light as cracks break into each gem. Caduceus claps his hands over them, arms trembling just slightly, and when he opens them again, there is nothing.

No diamonds, no roots, no light.

Fjord remains perfectly still.

Caleb can’t bring himself to look at any of them. He can’t bare to see the disappointment, the loss, and something tense and frightened inside of him twists as he imagines what the sounds of heartbreak will be from each of his friends as the veil is locked for good. His own heart feels, suddenly, empty.

Everything is silent for twenty-one seconds.

“This isn’t-” Caduceus begins, his brow beginning to furrow, but he falls silent as finally, weakly, Fjord sucks a shallow breath in, his chest rising tremulously.

Incredibly, Caleb feels Fjord’s hand squeeze around his arm, the movement so slight that nobody could have seen it but - he felt it. He definitely felt it.

“Oh,” says Caduceus. “There were are.”

Jester looks ready to pass out, swaying where she kneels by the body. Beauregard gives a guttural shout of relief, looking up at the canopy and hanging her head back. Then, she takes in a deep breath and yells again, now with words.

“Fucking _yes_! Wildmother!”

Fjord doesn’t move, and after a moment his hand releases Caleb’s arm. His second breath is as shallow as the first, but Caduceus is still smiling with relief so Caleb figures this is probably normal. He very shakily pulls back, releasing Fjord’s hand and arm to lay back on the ground. There are little crescents left, where Caleb’s fingernails had bitten into his green skin.

“Well done,” says Caduceus quietly to the unconscious, but living, Fjord. He cradles Fjord’s cheek in one, large hand. “I know that wasn’t easy, but you’ll be back with us soon...”

Caleb breathes through the relief, sitting back and drying his tears with his sleeve as he observes some of the more extroverted of his friends. Beauregard flops backwards to lay on the ground with what can only be described as a groan of gratitude, and waves her hands over her head for no clear reason. Even though Jester still has a haunted look about her, she giggles as she sweeps her paints together and puts them away into her bag quickly. Then, she flops over Beauregard’s belly for no clear reason and kicks her feet.

“Who’s Erathis?” asks Nott. Caleb turns and is mildly surprised to find that she is standing now, at his side. She doesn’t seem comfortable at all, but still most of the tension from before seems to have been relieved.

With him sitting and Nott standing, they are roughly the same height, or Nott may be a little taller.

“That is – ah, the Goddess, Nott,” says Caleb steadily. “The Lawbearer.”

Nott shifts her weight between her feet uncomfortably.

“Isn’t she one of the good ones?”

Caleb hesitates.

“She is… sanctioned. In the Empire,” he says finally. “She is not bad.”

Nott looks over at Beauregard and Jester, who have sat up now. Jester is finally healing the wound to Beauregard’s shoulder.

“Will the Scourgers come back for you?” asks Nott. “You said they’d want you… We could tell everyone we need to move somewhere safer, before that fucker tells everyone where we are.”

“It is ah...” Caleb hesitates. He answers in a very low voice. “It appears to be quite the opposite, Nott. I think that fucker means to put the cat back inside of the bag. If Eodwulf is to be believed, he will… try to take the heat off, by making the Cerberus Assembly believe I have been successfully dispatched.”

Nott is frowning. Even as Caleb speaks, he hears how absurd it sounds. Even if Eodwulf has some reason to want to protect him, now, after seventeen long years, it is still a ridiculously risky prospect. The moment the Assembly found out the falsehood, that would sign Eodwulf's death warrant too.

“Do you believe him?” Nott asks.

Caleb gives her a hopeless look, which Nott seems to understand.

"What if... if it's true," she says slowly. “If the guy who cut Fjord’s head off does that, is he…?”

She is clearly looking for a word, because the idea of putting ‘a friend’ on the end of that sentence is patently absurd. Caleb frowns.

“You, Nott, are my friend," he says. "Fjord is my friend. And these people...” Caleb waves a hand vaguely at the group. “Family. I don’t trust anybody else in the world. I am... quite determined to protect these people. As are you, _ja?_ ”

Nott nods sadly. She doesn’t seem entirely convinced, but Caleb cannot blame her in the least.

He welcomes the inevitable scrutiny, whether it is questioning, or spells. Caleb knows better than to trust himself, let alone anybody like him.

In his pocket, he draws circles on the surface of the blue rock with his thumb.

\- - -

Pure, regenerative magic closes the cracks in Wulf’s collarbone, and eases the angry throbbing burns upon his skin. He reaches for one of the familiar pockets of spell components at his hip.

Caleb has already retreated twenty feet, and is still backing away. His feet are bare against the ground of the gritty Xorhassian desert, and he still wears only his ripped up (and now badly singed) Xorhassian shirt and pants. The last scraps of burnt rope drop from his arms, but more is still looped ineffectually around his ankles. Under one arm he has bundled his spellbook and his coat, the rest of his belongings abandoned or destroyed.

Rubbing his hands together with a strip of iron between them, Wulf begins to murmur a spell, but Caleb just waves one hand in the air like it is nothing, and the magic dies.

“ _I’m telling you, Eodwulf, clockwork toys are nothing against an army that controls fate_ ,” he says warningly in Zemnian. “ _If we must sacrifice our souls for the Empire, please let us at least be effective._ ”

Wulf’s head throbs.

“Lawbearer...” he whispers, silently begging at least for guidance, and Caleb laughs, full-throated and cruel in a way that is barely familiar at all.

“ _Why is it that the dark_ _gods_ _’_ _C_ _hosen are so much more powerful?”_ he asks rhetorically, taking another couple of steps back.

He says something else – something quiet – and with a twist of his free hand, frosty wind and spatters of icy rain are drawn seemingly from nowhere in between himself and Wulf. It is almost opaque, with sand rising up to swirl within the localised storm, spatters of sudden rain thrown at all angles.

“ _Y_ _ou’re insane!_ ” Wulf yells over the thunderous noise.

He considers, swiftly. There is no time. He gambles.

Wulf does not dismiss or try to avoid the storm, but instead gathers his nerve and charges straight through it, towards where he thinks Caleb will be. Rain thrashes against his skin, sand scratches and the wind almost takes his balance. Instead of preparing any magic, Wulf lurches out of the little maelstrom and swings the _Final Word_ at Caleb’s legs. In the same movement, he launches himself at the spellbook under his once-friend’s arm, trying to claw it away.

Caleb gives a shout of surprise and pain, and falls to the side, to one knee, though he still clings furiously to his spellbook.

“ _Crafty,_ ” he bites out.

He grabs a handful of sand from the ground next to him and begins to cast, but Wulf drops his weapon and swipes through the air with his free hand to kill the magic before it can take effect.

“ _I bet you do not even know where the Laughing Hand is_ _,_ ” Wulf pushes, maintaining his grip on the spellbook in one hand as best he can and kicking at Caleb’s chest with a heavy boot to try and force it from him. “ _What... idiocy, thinking you could control it._ ”

“ _I’ll control the next one,_ ” Caleb responds promptly, breathless though his wild blue eyes are still filled with twisted mirth as he refuses to let go.

From the storm behind him, Wulf hears a crack, and a bolt of lightning shoots in their direction. His heart swoops in anticipation of being struck, but instead Caleb’s finely directed arcane lightning hits the spine of his spellbook, so close to Wulf’s hand that it tingles as the book cover splits. With one more tug, Caleb rips most of his book back, leaving only the front panel and first few pages in Wulf’s hand.

_The next one._

No, surely… no.

Caleb rolls to the side, coat and spellbook under his arm. Fumblingly, he finds the right pocket in his bundled up cloak for some other component too small for Wulf to see.

Wulf tries to dismiss this spell too, but he is just not quick enough, and he feels his centre become heavy as the storm behind him dies. Everything around him moves so quickly, and he feels like he can’t even think fast enough to keep up. By the time Wulf has dropped the loose pages, and picked up the _Final Word_ , Caleb has already backed up almost sixty feet, his eyes alight with freedom even as loose rope trails from both of his ankles.

He goes to speak, but their eyes lock at just the right moment, and he hesitates. Caleb’s expression softens just slightly, and Wulf freezes where he is standing, silent. He isn’t sure if the other wizard notices when this spell too, drops.

Wulf could move. He could talk, quite easily. And Caleb, the man who is Bren, is just looking at him. Frozen. He could move too, but he doesn’t.

Wulf swallows silently. He looks over Caleb’s face again, the stubble at his chin, the sharp, elegant brow. The darkness around his eyes. Wulf feels like, if he could just look, if he just had… time. He could find something. In the blue of Caleb’s wary eyes, maybe Wulf could find someone.

His hand twitches, but he does not reach for his imperfect holy symbol. He swallows the lump in his throat.

In his head, Wulf can hear melodic voices, ever so softly reciting words in Celestial. It always sounded so lyrical, so pure, even as the others fumbled over pronunciation. Wulf remembers the voices like it was only yesterday, would protect them, his home, with his last breath.

He stays perfectly still. If he moves, Bren will think he is casting.

Bren looks somewhere in the vicinity of Wulf’s shoulder. Bites his lip.

Wulf smiles slightly, and tilts his head to the side, blinking to force the wetness from his eyes.

Bren gives a slight nod, and turns unsteadily with a vague, inscrutable frown.

“ _Next time_ ,” he says, and it is almost inaudible from his distance.

Wulf draws a symbol in the air, and reaches for his components. He uses the most powerful runes he knows, and draws a sulphurous circle in the centre of his palm before reaching out to point at his once friend.

Bren must hear the arcane words, because he pauses. It is too late though. He has only a fraction of a moment to react, and has barely turned to glance over his shoulder when the violent smack of sound and light hits. A fiery inferno erupts around and within him, surging destructively against the sand and ripping at his body with such instantaneous force that Wulf sees Bren’s lithe silhouette blown to multiple disintegrating pieces against the backdrop of the ball of fire.

The heat and the brightness sting Wulf’s eyes and skin. He pulls his shirt up over his mouth to protect from the smoke, but doesn’t look away.

“Lawbearer,” Wulf murmurs. He holds onto his holy symbol so tightly it almost slices into his hand.

Before him lies a burnt crater in the desert, and the barest of scorched, blackened debris. Wulf thinks he sees a splintered human rib.

Behind Wulf lies the cover of a spell book with the first few pages attached, fluttering in the swirling, sandy wind.

\- - -

Wulf’s eyes are hot, and he does not open them immediately.

He doesn’t know what he saw in Bren’s last moment, what was communicated to him. Maybe it was nothing at all. Wulf has never been very good at reading people.

He knew this person once, though. He knew Bren very well. Wulf can’t shake the feeling that in his final moment, his once-friend had been surprised, but he had not been angry. If anything, he seemed… impressed. There was a time in Wulf’s life when impressing Bren had meant a great deal.

A cool fingertip is still pressed against Wulf’s forehead, and he opens his eyes.

Master Ikithon pulls his hand back in one jerky movement, and lowers his arm. His eyes are distant. Wulf wonders what Master Ikithon saw in Bren’s last moments, when he observed them in Wulf’s memory.

They are seated in the Master’s office, somehow cluttered and yet perfectly neat, chaotic and yet impossibly deliberate, all at the same time. It is well lit, but not bright, with no windows and yet a low, comfortable breeze.

Wulf does not know when he began to dig his fingernails into his thighs. The scars around his throat gently throb.

“ _Are you satisfied, Sir?_ ” he asks quietly, in respectful Zemnian.

Wulf is careful not to let it leak into his voice how much he does not want to go back again, into his memory. Bren’s familiar face, his voice, his magic… it is an aching, open wound. But if the Master wants him to travel through and relive his memories again, it will be so. Wulf may or may not have the willpower to resist his former teacher’s magic, but he certainly has the wisdom not to try.

Thankfully, Master Ikithon sits back in his chair, and closes his hand.

His grey hair is pulled back loosely, and Master Ikithon does not have ‘casual’ clothes per se as far as Wulf knows, but he is wearing some of his simpler robes. Soft cream, with royal blue accents.

“ _You returned empty handed_ ,” he observes.

“ _I decided against sacrificing any more of my team_ ,” Wulf responds mildly. “ _Juli was killed just trying to retrieve the Warlock’s head..._ se reposer bien _,"_ he adds in _Inselkind_ under his breath.

The Master’s eyes are sunken and tired,and while objectively he is not a young man, this is a rare moment in which he truly looks old. For a moment, Wulf meets his eye – but he can never read Master Ikithon.

He averts his gaze.

Master Ikithon turns in his chair to face his desk. Places carefully upon it are three items – the leather straps of the holster Bren used for his books, the symbol Bren had been carrying to prove he had the favour of the Kryn Empress, and what little Wulf had managed to rip from Bren’s spellbook.

“ _The remainder of Bren’s… gang?_ ” says Master Ikithon.

“ _They didn’t know what they were doing, Sir,_ ” Wulf tells him. “ _I have seen that Torog is abhorrent to these people._ ”

There is a moment’s pause, because of course this is not relevant, as much as Wulf believes it should be. He does not protest, of course. He has more than enough scars to remind him that the understanding reached between himself and his former teacher is... tenuous.

“ _They_ _are inconsequential; they will_ _will scatter and disappear without a leader,_ ” Wulf corrects himself.

Master Ikithon stands up suddenly, and Wulf would jump if he wasn’t accustomed to this. He watches as the older man steps over to his bookshelves, and considers it thoughtfully.

“ _It is always… novel, Eodwulf,_ ” he says in a low voice. “ _To observe the moments when you feel that mercy is appropriate. And the moments when you do not._ ”

Wulf says nothing as that was not a question. Master Ikithon is about eye level with a row of books, one of which he reaches up to touch. He runs his finger over its spine with a frown.

On the shelf above the row of books sits a coil of black rope, knotted and with barbed protrusions every couple of inches. It is not an item that Master Ikithon used to display, but has become a fixture of his bookshelves in recent years. Or perhaps it is just for Wulf’s benefit, when he visits.

“ _You will fret over the life of a goblin but slash at a half-orc’s neck until its head comes free,_ ” he murmurs, voice rumbling, and something about makes Wulf’s skin prickle. “ _You i_ _gnore_ _a rare_ _opportunity_ _to end a turncoat_ _from_ _the Cobalt Soul,_ _yet_ _follow orders_ _as directed_ _when it comes to one of our own._ ”

Master Ikithon laughs, but Wulf is fairly certain he has never seen a person less amused.

“ _If I did not know better, I might think_ _the tenets of your holy vocation are entirely arbitrary._ ”

He pulls the book from the shelf, and comes back to his desk as he thumbs through it, looking for something.

“ _A very_ _funny_ _thought,_ _yes?_ ” he finishes.

Wulf resists rising to the bait.

Master Ikithon looks at him expectantly, and Wulf sees shadows beneath his eyes. They are rimmed with pink, and it is only in this moment that Wulf realises he actually does recognise Master Ikithon's manner. This is rage. Pure rage. Wulf shakily scratches the inside of his arm.

“ _Very funny_ ,” he agrees quietly.

“ _Y_ _ou should have preserved the spell book_ _at the very least_ ,” says Master Ikithon dismissively. He opens one of the drawers to his desk and carefully deposits the symbol of favour, and the leather book holster. Wulf bites down on the tip of his tongue as Master Ikithon closes the drawer with a snap and they are gone.

“ _I tried,_ ” says Wulf.

He watches as Master Ikithon lays the reference book open in front of him, next to the scraps from Bren’s spellbook.

Wulf’s former teacher does not deign to look at him, but instead pulls the front cover of Bren’s spell book across the table towards himself. Wulf looked at the papers earlier; there is nothing substantial in there, at least in terms of the spells’ power. They are early explorations into the arcane, the very basics, which makes sense as they were the book’s first couple of pages. The handwriting is familiar though, the tiny runes precise and neat, and without error.

Master Ikithon handles the cover and pages with delicacy and care, and seems to forget the second tome, whatever it is, altogether as he looks more closely at his former student's writing. On one of the first pages, there is a small, circular diagram lined with tiny runes, and sketched next to it a sitting cat. Master Ikithon reaches for it with the back of one finger, but stops and closes his hand.

“ _We’re finished here_ ,” he says. “ _You may go._ ” He waves one hand towards the door, not looking up.

Wulf swallows thickly.

“ _I did try,_ _Master Ikithon_ ,” he promises again quietly.

When the Master turns his gaze upon Wulf, it is hardly friendly, but nor is it as cold as might be expected. Master Ikithon leans over in his chair and Wulf freezes still, his whole body stiff and wary – but his former teacher just reaches up to grip his upper arm. Squeezes warmly, as if they are friends.

“ _What’s done is done_ ,” says Master Ikithon, not ungently. The corner of his mouth twitches down, and his pale blue eyes don't seem to quite focus. “ _What’s gone is gone._ ”

Wulf doesn’t know what to do with that. He just nods, and Master Ikithon lets him go, turning back to his desk.

“ _You will be sent back to Ghor Dranas within the week_ ,” he says.

Wulf frowns, straightening his back.

“ _But Sir, the Laughing Hand-_ ”

“ _Eodwulf_ ,” Master Ikithon cuts him off with soft authority.

“ _Redemption is... never arbitrary, Sir,_ ” says Wulf.

Master Ikithon breathes out slowly.

“ _Go home_ ,” he says.

Wulf wants to argue, but at least for now, he just can’t. He stands up from his chair slowly from the familiar chair, watching Master Ikithon for a moment longer even as the old man looks back down to the torn pages of the spellbook. His touch is practised and feather-light as he lifts one of the pages, to look at another very simple, fundamental spell inscribed by a once-prodigy.

Master Ikithon’s breathing is too steady. It is artificial calm.

Wulf doesn’t have anywhere to go, but he knows he needs to leave. He backs out of the office and into the narrow corridor of Master Ikithon’s familiar homestead slowly, and pulls the door closed behind him.

“ _What’s done is done,_ ” he hears Master Ikithon repeat to himself, and just before the door clicks shut, Wulf thinks he sees the old man press one bony, slightly trembling hand over his eyes. " _It's done._ "

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Share Memory**  
>  Casting Time 1 standard action  
> Components V, S
> 
> You momentarily link your mind with the target (1 creature touched) and share a single memory. You can show the target one of your memories, show the target one of its own memories, or view one of the target’s memories.
> 
> Thank you for reading. ^^ I'm nervous about this fic for so many reasons and I appreciate all of you awesome people.


	4. Appendix/Mechanics

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I figured that, since I tend to make sure I know the D&D mechanics for my CR fics (especially this one), I might as well share them. There is nowhere else these facts would really be relevant – for instance, when am I ever going to need to justify the existence of the small room where Eodwulf took Caleb?
> 
> I might delete this, but for now, in case people find it interesting. ^^

**EODWULF STATS**

Currently Lawful Neutral, hinging on Lawful Good

Wizard 11 (School of Transmutation)/Paladin 5 (Oath of Redemption) – _the core tenet of the Oath of Redemption is to hold violence as a last resort. His deity is Erathis, the Lawbearer_

Strength: 17 Dexterity: 10 Constitution: 12  
Intelligence: 19 Wisdom: 8 Charisma: 20  
(stat increases in levelling were to Strength and Intelligence, and he has a magical tattoo for +1 CHA (aquamarine dust))

He also has the linguist feat, including speaking _Inselkind_ (which is what I named French)

**Eodwulf’s Holy Symbol:**

It’s referenced as being big and imperfect because Bren made this holy symbol in another fic of mine. It was made of wood and transmuted to silver, the implication being that the Lawbearer made this transmutation permanent.

**Eodwulf’s Weapon:**

_**Final Word** _( _Legendary_ ; requires attunement)

Silver +1 Greatsword

The _Final Word_ is very long but very thin, and carries the Versatile weapon quality.

When the _Final Word_ causes a creature to Die or begin Dying, its weapon bonus becomes +3 until your next short or long rest.

Additionally, when the _Final Word_ causes a creature to Die or begin Dying, its wielder gains basic knowledge of the dying creature’s physical status for one hour (ie. you can sense its heartbeat, its breathing, its general temperature, whether it is alive or dead, how many hit points it has, its ability scores, and whether it is currently on the same plane as you). Once during this hour, you can teleport to a position adjacent to the creature or its corpse as the spell Dimension Door (no distance limitation applies, but the spell fails if the creature is on a different Plane).

Finally, if you are wielding the _Final Word_ and suffer a wound causes you to Die or begin Dying, you can, with your last ounce of strength, do one of two things: you may (1) use your reaction to immediately send a telepathic message of 25 words or less to one living creature on the same plane as you (as in the spell Sending), OR (2) use your reaction to grant one living creature on the same plane as you the ability to sense your physical status and teleport to your location as above for one hour.

**Eodwulf’s Armour/Cloak:**

Splint Armor with a twist on the _Ghost Armour_ homebrew quality (very rare)

His cloak and armour are actually one item. It appears as just a shimmering, shadowy magical cloak. It can be donned as a bonus action, at which point it transforms into +2 Splint Armor with a cloak worn over the top of that.

**Eodwulf also has a Hat of Disguise** (cast Disguise Self at will)

**Initial Fight**

The initial fight was an ambush. The other _Vollstreckers_ were around level 10/11, and one of them specialised in Conjuration. Spells specifically noted are:

_Polymorph_

(Caleb would have been polymorphed into a form of Dire Giant Crocodile, which was Gargantuan with an INT of 2 – as well as soaking attacks he could provide cover)

_Disguise Self_ (using the Hat of Disguise)

_Sword Burst & _a higher level _Ice Knife_

(which is why Caleb’s clothes are ripped up but not burned or anything)

Also just other regular spells like _Lightning Bolt_ and _Melf’s Acid Arrow_

_Spare the Dying_

Mechanically, Caduceus tried to cast _Spare the Dying_ on Caleb as a bonus, and _Cure Wounds_ on Fjord in the same round, but the Cure spell was _Counter_ _spelled_.

Eodwulf used _Dimension Door_ to take Caleb out of the fight.

**In the Interrogation Room**

The room they went to was the ground floor of a

 _Galder’s Tower_ , which was two stories tall and almost invisible among the tall trees and hills in the wooded area; technically, Caleb was always within 500ft of the Mighty Nein.

Eodwulf cast _Prestidigitation_ a couple of times within the room.

From the Paladin spell list, he cast

 _Zone of Truth_ twice (the first time, Caleb saved).

Eodwulf also cast _Suggestion_ near the end, when he was running out of time.

The spells torn out of Caleb’s spellbook and thus currently unavailable to him are:

 _Detect Magic_ , _Find Familiar_ , _Chromatic Orb_ , _Disguise Self_ , _Alarm_ , _Comprehend Languages_ , and _Burning Hands._ He might be able to fix the page for _Identify_ , which has been torn in half.

Eodwulf knocked Caleb out before using _Dimension Door_ to return him to the battlefield, because he didn’t think Caleb would go along with the spell willingly.

Eodwulf used a version of _Modify Memory_ to alter his own memory to make himself believe that he had killed Caleb. His mind needed to fill in the gaps to explain why he would do that and how, and also the fact that Caleb’s body and most of his belongings were destroyed.

Within the description of the memory he implanted in his own head, he would have included learning the correct spelling of Fjord’s name and the fact that Yasha is under some kind of magical influence. 

(It is implied that this is the second time he has modified his own memory to make himself believe Caleb was dead. The first time was in Shady Creek Run, so he could report back to Ikithon that there was no reason to keep tabs on the Mighty Nein because the only members left were Beau and Nott. In this universe, the weird dude in Shady Creek Run was Eodwulf)

**When Caleb Wakes Up**

Caleb finds that Eodwulf left behind his own Transmuter’s Stone, with its current benefit set to give whoever is holding it proficiency on CON saves.

Eodwulf also left a Scroll of _Sending_.

Caleb changes the properties of his own Transmuter stone to give himself Darkvision of 60ft (by casting _Expeditious Retreat_ )

Not spells, but at one point when he almost gets poisoned by one of the plants he is passing, his _Ring of Evasion_ activated to avoid it, aaand Frumpkin smelled the incense first because he has advantage on sniff checks

_Raise Dead_

Caduceus is the caster, obviously. Fjord’s body was surrounded by fungi, created with an extension of Caduceus’ _Decompose_ cantrip. It was not yet impacting the corpse, but had the spell failed, Caduceus would have kept growing the fungi until it was consumed. 

As part of the resurrection ritual,

Jester did a Perform check for painting. She painted Fjord’s head back onto his body

Beau did a straight Charisma check for being respectful, honest, and appropriate (with advantage thanks to Fjord’s tutelage)

Caleb did a Religion check for invoking the will of the Lawbearer, given that it was a Paladin of the Lawbearer who killed Fjord, a Paladin of the Wildmother, in good faith but based on bad information.

**The False Memories**

Trent Ikithon casts _Share Memory_

I know this spell from Pathfinder. Every now and then I use a Pathfinder spell in a fic; in universe, they were created by Trent Ikithon.

He directly enters into Eodwulf’s memory of what happened, which only works because Eodwulf sincerely remembers it and believes it to be true.

(When they were in school, Eodwulf was studying Transmutation and Bren was studying Evocation. Eodwulf doesn’t know that has necessarily changed, so when he imagines spells cast by Caleb they tend to be Evocation based.)

Spells used in Eodwulf’s false memory are-

It’s implied that Eodwulf has cast _Zone of Truth_ as in reality

I imagine that he destroyed the Amulet with a combination of transmuting it to silver and then charcoal (as Transmutation wizard ability Minor Alchemy), and expending uses of _Divine Smite_ to destroy the magic itself.

Caleb gets out of his bindings with something resembling _Burning Hands,_ even though he is restrained.

_Hold Person_ (Counterspelled by Caleb)

_Storm Sphere_

_Sand Wall_ (Counterspelled by Eodwulf)

_Slow_

and

 _Fireball_ , which is how Caleb is killed.

Thank you for reading my appendix and mechanics notes. o.o You and I have both earned our nerd cred this day.


End file.
